


While You Were Dead

by thebirdlady



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:19:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 32,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebirdlady/pseuds/thebirdlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was originally a fill for the following prompt at the kinkmeme:<br/></p><blockquote>
  <p>After the reichenbach falls, John terribly misses Sherlock, and.....also Mycroft.<br/>After Sherlock's funeral, they don't talk or see other anymore simply because there's no chance at all, because the only link between them was Sherlock and now with he's gone...John just doesn't know what to do. And he's terrified if this is the end of their relationship. If he can all it a relationship at all. Who knew John would miss those meeings at abandand warehouses?<br/>Basically I'd like to see they pining after each other, tossing and turning at night, thinking about calling the other, until they finally work up the caurage or Sherlock comes back and does something about it.</p>
</blockquote><br/>May contain spoilers for FINA (if you squint), as this version of The Fall is loosely based on the ACD canon (and not at all on the Gatiss/Moffat interpretation, which came after this story was already finished).
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is based on the 1995 film 'While you were sleeping', the story itself not so much.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Comments are love! <3

John didn’t notice the black sedan that drew up behind him as he entered the Hickman Gallery. And while he would have been the first to concede that his observational powers were quite average at the best of times, today, perhaps, even the great Sherlock Holmes would have made some allowances for him. Because John was grieving. 

A month after the death of his best friend at the Reichenbach Falls, the pain had let up a little, only to make the void inside John’s chest more noticeable. A tremendous emptiness that fit the tremendous person who had left it behind. 

Practically on autopilot, John hobbled to the large, bleak room where the fake Vermeer painting had hung. It had not yet been replaced and the sound of his cane bounced off the smooth white walls. The room was blessedly empty. Which was probably the main reason why John found himself in the Gallery more often than any other place that he felt connected with Sherlock. It was a bit silly, he thought, fleeing Baker Street because the clutter neither he nor Mrs Hudson had the heart to move was too oppressive, only to go haunting the streets of London, searching for still more memories of the man who had created it. In truth, there were few places in London that did not remind him of Sherlock, but in the cold silence of the Gallery at least he did not run the risk of being hit and killed by a taxi (and wouldn’t that be ironic) because his mind was elsewhere, somewhere in the past where pale eyes still flashed, dark coats swirled and deductions were fired off at machine gun speed. 

In the Gallery, the lack of a black car that whisked him off to some obscure location also wasn’t as conspicuous. John was mildly surprised at the stab of emotion that cut through the void at that random thought. He blinked at the white wall, shifting his weight awkwardly. Willing his mind away from the memory of one Holmes brother, he turned it towards the other. The pain in his chest was diffuse as he probed it gingerly, like an aching tooth. Huh. Could it be that he missed being abducted without so much as a by-your-leave? Surely he wasn’t missing Mycroft? John sighed. It was probably just one more instance of phantom pain. Now that the completely unreal life he had led was gone and had taken with it the unique characters that had peopled his world, John felt more lost than when he had first limped across Mike Stamford’s path that fateful day.

An unexpected wave of sadness washed over him. To keep from swaying, he clutched his cane tightly enough to make the sinews in his hand creak. Alone. He felt so very alone. The empty Gallery suddenly seemed twice as large and John staggered bodily under the weight of his grief. He pressed his eyes shut against the stinging hotness rising there. He would not cry, damnit, he would not! 

John was focusing so hard on regaining his composure that he did not hear the steps approaching from behind nor the soft click of an umbrella tip against stone tiles. He did not notice the polite clearing of a throat close behind him. But he did feel the warm weight of a tentative hand on his shoulder, the human touch enough to return him to the brink of tears. 

“John?”

The uncharacteristic compassion in that voice was more than he could bear. His dams broke.


	2. Chapter 2

When Mycroft had first been informed about his brother’s death, he had in a rare bout of irrationality refused to believe it. For the longest time he had worried about Sherlock. But not anymore, not to that degree. Not when he was so assured that Sherlock was now in the very capable hands of one Dr John Watson, soldier, doctor and, as important as it was unexpected, friend. 

He had, of course, increased their surveillance level after the stunt they had pulled during their first case, the one the doctor so delightfully named The Study in Pink afterwards. Clearly, John Watson was no calming influence on his brother when it came to rushing headlong into danger. But he managed something much better, much more astounding: he reached Sherlock. Right through those tried and tested layers of intellect, self-centredness and aloofness Sherlock had wrapped around himself, John touched the heart even Mycroft had almost forgotten his brother possessed. It had taken all of Mycroft’s self-restraint to keep his expression blank when he saw Sherlock crack an honest smile at John, the flickering blue light of the police car making the scene even more unreal. 

Mycroft thought back to his first meeting with John. The defiance in every line of the man’s face, the way he held himself, the steady hand so warm against his own cool fingers. Mycroft had walked away from John then, delivering his deduction with a superciliousness he did not really feel. He suspected that he had begun to be intrigued by John Watson even then, but it was only when he and Sherlock actually started to giggle that Mycroft looked at John with a new kind of interest. How deceptively innocent he looked, carefree and ordinary. And yet he had in the space of half an hour killed a man to save his brother’s life and coaxed an unprecedented display of mirth from Sherlock. Mycroft wasn’t sure which was the more remarkable achievement.

From that night on Mycroft kept a close eye on John Watson. He fully expected to get past the initial interest rather quickly. His knack for deducing other people’s behavioural patterns and motivations went beyond even Sherlock’s capability. He suspected that this was because he was actually interested in people, while to Sherlock they were merely a means to an end; necessary but insignificant beyond their roles as pieces in his puzzles. Much like Sherlock, though, Mycroft had turned his ability to good use in his career, had honed it in meetings with countless foreign dignitaries and other government officials. Many of these encounters had to be handled very delicately. Egos needed to be stroked or threats carefully veiled until all hidden agendas were extrapolated and agreements negotiated that were in his country’s best interest.

By necessity, Mycroft was quite used to dealing with adversaries who were often rather cunning themselves. And yet, he was hard-pressed to remember anyone else who had eluded his sharp mind as easily, and perpetually, as John Watson. Whenever he thought that he had found out what made John tick, the man surprised him with an unexpected reaction. It soon became clear that CCTV could only deliver so much information. Certainly not enough to satisfy Mycroft’s steadily growing interest in John. At first he tried visiting 221b Baker Street more often, but Sherlock’s presence usually drowned out the subtleties Mycroft wished to observe in John. Besides, he feared that Sherlock had caught him looking at John once too often, had perhaps noticed how Mycroft’s smile had lingered a bit longer than necessary when he accepted John’s offer to walk him to the door. It would not do to rouse Sherlock’s suspicions, especially as long as Mycroft himself wasn’t entirely certain why he was exhibiting this odd behaviour. Clearly, Mycroft needed more information on John and if he wanted to obtain it discreetly, he decided, he would have to arrange meetings with the man sans Sherlock.

It was a question of semantics, really, John insisting on calling Mycroft’s invitations ‘abductions’. Mycroft thought that a little unfair. After all, he had upgraded their meeting places from deserted warehouses to less obscure locations, like Regent’s Park or a river boat on the Thames. In the end, what mattered to Mycroft was that John came along willingly, despite his token protests. Recently, Mycroft happened to time his invitations to coincide with John’s lunch time, which had introduced small restaurants to their list of venues. After a minor altercation, John appeared to approve of this turn of events - and Mycroft felt oddly warmed at John’s insistence that he pay for their meals at least every other time. 

Their conversation usually revolved around Sherlock, but Mycroft didn’t mind that. John was a delightful narrator of their adventures and Mycroft, who was naturally already well-informed about each of his brother’s little projects, learned quite a bit about John’s personality, both from what he recounted and from what he chose to withhold. So, eventually, the need to find out more about John was replaced by the joy of his company. Occasionally, Mycroft would surprise himself by disclosing tidbits about himself, his deeply ingrained reticence being circumvented by John’s honest interest. And more than once Mycroft was touched by John’s seemingly effortless acceptance of what he himself considered his eccentricities. After one of their meetings, when Mycroft was alone in his office again, he realised with some wariness that John was catching him in the same spell that had apparently drawn Sherlock in from the very beginning. Nevertheless, Mycroft could not help but look towards their next meeting with anticipation. And if this anticipation had turned a little needier after the incident at the pool and the sight of a pale and bruised, but miraculously still alive John Watson in a hospital bed, well, then Mycroft chose not to examine that too closely. He was, he found, quite content with the status quo. 

And then Sherlock had managed to get himself killed. Mycroft’s first reaction had been disbelief. John would never allow that to happen. A quick check of the surveillance monitors made his breath catch in his throat. John was standing outside 221b Baker Street, key ring raised to the lock, but unmoving. He looked like he was frozen in time, his shoulders slumped. His face was turned away from the camera, but his whole body exuded dread. Just like it had spoken of his defiance when they had first met, Mycroft thought. Then, as if with a great effort of will, John turned the key and opened the door. Mycroft saw the limp and knew.

His first course of action was, of course, the investigation into Sherlock’s disappearance. He simply couldn’t bring himself to think of it as death. His brother, reckless as he was, was like a cat. He always landed on his feet. Nevertheless, Moriarty had been involved and that made the danger very real and the investigation somewhat more difficult, and for a month Mycroft was very busy going through all the information they already had on the criminal mastermind, looking for new evidence, new links between what they knew and what they found. He slept little and ate less. At one point he caught his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Sherlock would have little to tease him about now.

Through it all, however, Mycroft’s thoughts returned to John, his dreams haunted by the devastated image on the video screen. He had Anthea keep him informed about John’s doings and knew that he had taken to walking the streets of London, visiting and revisiting crime sites he and Sherlock had been to. He knew that John slept little more than he himself, that the limp had come back with a force, as had the tremor in his hand. 

One day, after having pored over the geographical maps of the Reichenbach Falls for hours, Mycroft finally gave in. His worry about John had increased steadily and the thought of how much John must be suffering made it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything else. A part of him, Mycroft admitted to himself as he rushed down the floors to where his car was waiting for him, simply wanted to be near John.

Locating John was, of course, no difficulty. Mycroft told his driver to stop and watched, his heart pounding rather loudly in his chest, as John entered the Hickman Gallery. Feeling apprehensive but set on his path, Mycroft stepped out of the car and, relishing the familiar comfort of the umbrella in his hand, followed him inside. 

He found John standing apparently lost in thought in a large, white room that made him look even smaller. He did not turn at Mycroft’s approach, so Mycroft, not wanting to startle him, gently cleared his throat. No reaction. By now he was close enough to hear John’s laboured breathing, saw the tightness of his shoulders, the tension pervading his whole body. Worry seized him and he reached out before he could stop himself.

“John?”

And then Mycroft’s heart broke a little.


	3. Chapter 3

John’s eyes were welling up, and even as he swept at them furiously with his trembling left hand, he knew it was futile. It seemed that Mycroft’s touch had dissolved the stop that had kept John’s emotions bottled up for the past month. He cringed. As if crying like this wasn’t bad enough, he was, after all, a fucking _soldier_ , did it really have to be in front of Mycroft Holmes of all people? Composed, proper Mycroft who, as far as John could tell, was virtually unfazable. God, even Sherlock would be better. Sherlock at least had a temper.

Had _had_ a temper. 

The tears returned with renewed vigour and all John could do was grit his teeth and try to keep from snuffling. There was an ache travelling up his arm from where he held his cane in a too tight grip, but John didn’t pay it any heed. What did it matter? It was just the newest member of the family, just another addition to the pain in his leg, his shoulder, his chest.

He was, however, keenly aware of the presence behind him. Mycroft hadn’t spoken another word and John expected, even hoped, to hear the soft click of the umbrella moving away any moment now, leaving him. Instead, after a brief pause the hand on his shoulder tightened. Not painfully. In fact, the spot where Mycroft’s hand touched him seemed the only part of John’s body that wasn’t hurting. This was not a get-a-grip gesture, but something much more considerate, kinder.

John was as startled by this realisation as he was by the effect it was having on him. He was indeed calming down, anchored by the touch of the most imperturbable man he knew. Giving up on any pretence of restraint, John surreptitiously leaned into the contact and Mycroft didn’t pull away. 

John didn’t know how long they were standing like this. But since the totally appropriate embarrassment never set in, he also didn’t care. Perhaps it was because Mycroft wasn’t intrusive at all. He was just there, waiting patiently, allowing John to slowly regain his composure. And when he finally felt ready to face the world again, Mycroft picked up on that as well.

“Would you care for lunch?”

John’s mouth twitched with a smile. 

“Yes, please.”

As he turned around, Mycroft’s hand fell from his shoulder and John felt the loss of its anchor acutely. The small, but genuine smile on Mycroft’s face, however, made him feel better than he had in a long time.


	4. Chapter 4

In the cocoon silence of the sedan, Mycroft’s gaze kept returning to John who was sitting very still, looking out the window at the busy life of London gliding by. Again, Mycroft was struck by the deceptive equanimity of the man. If it weren’t for the slightly puffy skin around his eyes it would be easy to misinterpret the tension in his body for military posture. But Mycroft knew better now. He had witnessed the depth of the emotions that were contained in that body and the bravery with which John was battling his grief. Had he really once mocked John’s courage as stupidity? Mycroft felt a little ill at the thought. 

To be fair, he had been surprised by John’s display of emotions earlier. And for a moment he had considered leaving, not wanting to intrude on such a private moment. But then he had remembered the image of John gathering all his courage to enter his own home, how small he had looked just then in that large empty gallery room, how lonely, and Mycroft felt a rush of sympathy that had him tighten his hold of John inadvertently. He had been quite shocked by the liberty he was taking, an apology already forming on his lips, but then John had leaned into his touch and Mycroft had felt the tension ease a little under his hand, and from that moment on he could not have pried it away even had he wanted to. 

Incredible as it seemed, John needed him here and now. Had perhaps needed him for a while. Again Mycroft’s mind flashed back to the image of John outside 221b, looking very much alone. Deserted. Mycroft experienced the paradox sensation of his heart simultaneously fragmenting with sorrow for John and expanding in an attempt to encompass this quite extraordinary man. He even felt an urge to draw John closer, to wrap him tightly in his arms, to make the pain go away. But that was ridiculous, surely. 

Feeling flustered, Mycroft was glad to notice that John’s breathing had evened out and he had ceased rubbing his face. No more tears then. Unwilling to break contact yet, Mycroft still took a moment to stow his own emotions safely back under lock and key. Embracing John was out of the question, but there had to be a way in which he could support him. Before his mind’s eye another image of John rose: smiling contently after a meal at that Italian place he was so partial to. Mycroft briefly debated the probability that John would accept his offer. After all, without Sherlock to talk about, why would John even agree to being ‘abducted’? Then again, perhaps Sherlock was precisely what John would wish to talk about. Mycroft felt a little queasy at the thought, but pushed the feeling away. He took a measured breath. Only one way to find out.

“Would you care for lunch?”

John’s answer had made him ridiculously happy and it was with some regret that he pulled his hand away at last.

Mycroft was drawn from his contemplations when the car slowed down. John’s eyes lit up as he saw the Italian restaurant drawing near. The grateful smile he directed at him did something very odd to Mycroft’s chest. 

It took some effort to reply with his customary suavity.

“Shall we?”

John smiled again and nodded.


	5. Chapter 5

When a plate of steaming pasta was placed in front of him, John was surprised to find that he was actually pretty hungry. His stomach had been in a knot for the past month, making it difficult to eat even when the mere smell of food hadn’t made him feel nauseous. But apart, perhaps, from his mother’s kitchen this was his favourite place for a meal and he tucked in with what was nearly his usual vigour. He was quite touched that Mycroft had remembered, a little embarrassed even, if he was being honest, and between this and the requirement of polite society to eat with your mouth closed, there was little room for conversation for a while.

It wasn’t long until John began to feel better, the food comforting his body as well as his soul. Even the tremor in his hand had subsided a little. It was when he reached for his wine that a sudden spasm ran through his fingers and he only barely avoided knocking over the glass. He looked up at Mycroft, to see if he had noticed, mentally chiding himself even as he did so: of course he would have noticed, the man was bloody Mycroft Holmes! But the embarrassed smile on John’s face died away when his gaze caught on the skilfully arranged food on Mycroft’s plate. It was practically untouched.

His eyes shifted to the long fingers that were resting on the table, remembering for a moment how strong that hand had felt on his back. Almost indistinguishable in hue from the pristine cream-coloured table cloth, it seemed strangely frail now. John startled. That was not a characteristic he normally associated with Mycroft. Slender, yes (despite Sherlock’s jibes), elegant, definitely, but frail? John’s doctor-sense kicked in. His gaze travelled up, noticing how loosely the bespoke suit was hanging from Mycroft’s shoulders, how angular his face looked even in the dim light, the sharp nose more pronounced than ever. A quick check revealed that the eyes that were returning his gaze steadily even now were bright, perhaps a little too bright, and red-rimmed. John furrowed his brow. How had he not seen this before?

“Mycroft,” he ventured, “how have you been?”

Mycroft seemed to think this over.

“Somewhat busy,” he acknowledged after a moment, then offered John a bland smile. “But otherwise quite well.”

John frowned.

“Don’t give me that, Mycroft. I’m a doctor, remember?”

“Of course,” agreed Mycroft. “How could I forget that.”

John wondered briefly if Mycroft was mocking him, but found that he was too concerned about the obvious deterioration in the man’s health to care.

“Well then?” he persisted.

Mycroft regarded him for a long moment and John had to keep himself from squirming under the scrutiny. Really, those Holmes brothers had disconcerting down to an art. But when Mycroft’s expression softened into a small but genuine smile, the tension dissipated.

“Very busy, then,” he admitted. “I,” he paused again, then seemed to come to a decision, “I have found it difficult to sleep. Or eat,” he added with a wry gesture at his plate.

John struggled to keep his expression professional. For Mycroft to let his guard down just this little bit was quite stunning. His posture was still excellent, years of practice would not allow anything else, John supposed. But his face had relaxed a bit and John could clearly see now the strain behind the habitual mask. It occurred to him that given Mycroft’s line of work, anything that had such an impact on the usually imperturbable man had to be extraordinary indeed.

_I worry about him. Constantly._

John swallowed against the lump that was rising in his throat. How had he not realised this sooner? Caught up in his own grief over losing his best friend, John had never really thought about what that loss meant to Mycroft, his brother. John felt ashamed even as his heart went out to Mycroft. And without any conscious effort on his part, his body followed suit. Reaching out, John wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s pale fingers. Cool to the touch and fragile, John squeezed them very gently.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly, “I’m so sorry.”

Mycroft’s eyes were exceedingly dark as he returned the pressure.

“So am I.”


	6. Chapter 6

On his way back to the office, Mycroft’s mind insisted on replaying the scene in the restaurant again and again. To be sure, he had been quite surprised by John’s concern. Which perhaps he shouldn’t have been. After all, he had more than sufficient evidence to the fact that John Watson’s most reliable trait was his penchant for doing the unexpected. This, however, ran markedly against the Holmes family’s inexperience with being caught unprepared and Mycroft could not deny that his fascination with the man still had not reached its limits. 

Perhaps that could account for Mycroft’s uncharacteristic lack of defence against him. John’s concern had been so honest, so open, Mycroft felt that he could not keep up his usual prevarications. Not even after John had made it clear that his interest in him was of a purely professional nature--which left Mycroft to cope with a jab of disappointment that was as irrational as it was unexpected. If truth be told, he was quite alarmed by the effect John was having on him. But John had persisted and Mycroft surrendered. 

He was not in the habit of revealing personal information to anyone and it was with some anxiety that he waited for John’s reaction. Time stretched uncomfortably while John was lost in thought and Mycroft was beginning to regret his indulgence when the unthinkable happened: John touched him. Not like a doctor, certainly not as an abductee, but as a friend. At least that was what Mycroft imagined a friend’s touch would feel like. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. His entire body tuned in on John: the warmth of his touch, his eyes, his voice. Mycroft wasn’t usually given to entertaining such fancy, but at that moment he felt like he had come in from a lifetime of winter to the comfort of a welcoming hearth. His mind swirled in a vortex, centred around and fuelled by the heat of their joined hands. On a mad impulse, he let go of his defences entirely, allowing--no, inviting--John to see straight past his barriers, to share the pain, the fear, and also the love that connected them through Sherlock. 

At that thought, Mycroft’s mind jarred. The vortex cracked and burst into pieces and reality rushed back to envelop him with its familiar coldness.

Quite shaken, Mycroft noticed with some relief the waiter who was approaching their table. Under the guise of beckoning the man, he gently pulled his hand away, not entirely brave enough to look at John’s face. After the familiar dance of praising the food and declining desert, Mycroft discreetly settled the bill, only to be surprised once more when John caught the waiter’s sleeve.

“Could you please put this in a bag for us,” he asked, pointing to Mycroft’s plate.

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose when his plate was taken away, about to point out that this was not the kind of restaurant that was used to providing their customers with ‘doggy bags’. But John beat him to it.

“You have got to eat,” he said, jaw set in a stubborn line, and Mycroft, fingers still tingling from their earlier contact, surrendered once more. He allowed himself a small sigh. This had all the makings of a bad habit. 

Mycroft had offered to drive John home, but John declined, saying he preferred to walk for a bit. Their good-byes were very polite and Mycroft could almost pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. If it wasn’t for the paper bag he was clutching like a strange sort of prize. In the privacy of his car, Mycroft’s gaze travelled from the bag to his hands. Feeling a little foolish, he gingerly wrapped his left hand around his right. It wasn’t the same. He let go with another sigh and directed his attention to the world outside the window.


	7. Chapter 7

Over the following week, Mycroft found little time to ponder the implications of his reaction to John. The British embassy in Syria had been involved in a minor scandal and as soon as Mycroft returned to the office, he was borne away to the airport with the instructions to pour oil on troubled Arab waters. 

He returned to London a few days later to find that the paper bag he had left on his desk had been replaced with two neat stacks of files, one containing Anthea’s ongoing reports about John, the other bearing the crest of the Swiss Information Service. Mycroft rubbed his eyes in an attempt to chase away his exhaustion as well as the entirely silly regret he felt. Of course the leftover food would have been disposed of, he reasoned, choosing to ignore the small voice which objected that they could have left the bag at least. Mycroft allowed himself a small frown. It seemed that he did need some rest after all. And a warm meal, perhaps. 

_You have got to eat._

And he would, he promised silently. His gaze returned to the papers on his desk. But first things first. Settling in his chair, he used the intercom to order some tea. Then, with a regretful glance at Anthea’s neat handwriting, he pushed that stack to the side and flipped open the Swiss report instead.

The torrential force of the Reichenbach Falls made it impossible to dive in that area, so all the evidence they had of the events that had transpired there was largely based on the jumble of footprints found in the soft soil on the adjacent cliff top. It did not take a detective of Sherlock’s abilities to conclude that a struggle had taken place here. Furthermore, there were no footprints coming down from the cliff nor any bodies, dead or otherwise, to be found on top of it. This strongly suggested that the antagonists must have toppled over the edge and into the churning waters below. It was unlikely that anyone could survive such a fall and even then the strong undercurrents would overwhelm even the strongest swimmer. 

So instead of wasting time--and probably lives--by attempting the impossible, Mycroft had had the River Aar watched for any evidence that might wash up on its shores. Nothing had emerged so far. According to their most recent account, Swiss Intelligence considered it increasingly improbable that anything would. There were reports from their experts on geology, potamology, statistics and Mycroft spent the remainder of the afternoon comparing their notes with the those of his own specialists. He pulled out the geographical maps and examined the photographic evidence again, recalling the site from memory in as much detail as he could. Eventually, he leaned back in his chair, elbows propped up on the armrests, the tips of his steepled fingers pressed against his mouth. 

Whichever way he looked at it, there was something very much off about this whole affair. 

There was a soft knock on the door and Anthea entered with a tray in her hands. In the gloom beyond his desk lamp Mycroft could not make out what it was she was carrying. He hadn’t called for more tea … Then he caught the whiff of tomato and garlic. Oh. Abruptly gripped by some fierce emotion, Mycroft’s vision went a bit blurry and he was suddenly grateful for the lack of light. It wouldn’t do for his already far too perceptive assistant to see him in this state. 

Anthea placed the tray in front of him without a comment, though Mycroft did hear the faint ‘tch’ as she left the room, turning on the lamp on the sideboard as she went. 

Mycroft poked a fork at the steaming pasta, wondering who he was trying to fool. It looked a little worse for the wear from being deep-frozen and then reheated, but it still smelled delicious. It smelled like a warm hand covering his own. It smelled like someone caring.

He drew a deep breath and started to eat.


	8. Chapter 8

John had declined Mycroft’s offer of a lift home because he needed to think and in his experience that worked better when his body was in motion. Actually, he thought wryly as he watched the black car pull smoothly into the traffic, with the jumble his mind was in at the moment, running a marathon might not prove enough. He started to walk anyway.

Really, this lunch with Mycroft had been the strangest experience. And that was probably saying something, coming from someone who had stumbled into a unique symbiosis with the Holmes brothers. If Sherlock wasn’t of this world, then Mycroft may as well have come from a different galaxy, despite that he appeared to have mastered a more convincing human disguise. 

_You don’t seem very afraid._

_You don’t seem very frightening._

No, indeed. John wasn’t frightened of Mycroft. He just didn’t know anything about the man, really, and for the first time in their acquaintance it bothered John. 

Perhaps, he thought, that was because he had never perceived Mycroft as an actual human being before. Being Sherlock’s brother (and arch enemy) had effectively moved him to the edge of John’s priorities right from the start and as John had enough on his hands to deal with the oddities of one Holmes, he hadn’t been very keen on being pushed towards madness that much faster by the oddities of the other.

For the longest time, he connected only two traits with Mycroft: suavity that reminded him of teflon in its smoothness, and an intensity of focus that bordered on the creepy. Not exactly the qualities that would tempt anyone to ask for a second helping. 

Only… Now it seemed that he had been wrong, or rather mislead--no doubt a strategy which Mycroft employed regularly and with great success. John grimaced at the extent to which he had been prepared to believe that Mycroft was the cool manipulator he, rather transparently, pretended not to wish to be seen as. John cursed under his breath both his own gullibility and the convoluted schemes that were the trademark of a true Holmes. That and their bloody smugness. Still, Sherlock would be right to call him an idiot on this one (he had probably scoffed at John’s thickness as it was). Because today he had seen that Mycroft wasn’t cold at all. Or, indeed, creepy or alien. John actually cringed at his earlier thoughts as the image of Mycroft letting his guard down rose in his mind. There had been so much going on in those dark eyes, so much sorrow and worry, but what had staggered John, what had felt like a physical blow to his chest, had been the cautious plea directed at himself. A plea that he wouldn’t abuse the trust he was given, that he would treat gently the vulnerable heart he was allowed a glimpse of.

He wasn’t sure that Mycroft knew he was doing it, but John, whose useless therapist had at least got the part about trust issues right, was awestruck. Awestruck by Mycroft’s courage to offer his trust like that and also amazed that he, John, had somehow invoked it. And if he thought about it, this wasn’t the first time that Mycroft had reached out to him. All these little pieces of information, each not much on its own but plenty if added up, dropped in conversations over other lunches, just like this one. Only, none of the other lunches really had been like this one, had they? There had been no touching, no true vulnerabilities shown and accepted (and on both sides too, John thought, remembering his break-down at the Gallery earlier), and John had certainly never felt this fierce urge to protect Mycroft before. In fact, he would have considered the very thought ludicrous. Now, however, laughing was the last thing John felt like. What he wanted was to get closer to Mycroft, to rub those cold fingers until they were warm again, take him home to make sure that he ate and slept and-

And then Mycroft’s expression had changed, the shutters of bland politeness falling back into place, and for the second time that day John was very aware of the loss when Mycroft’s hand was drawn away. It took him a moment to register the waiter who had come out of nowhere or to make sense of the conversation he was having with Mycroft. Out of a reflex, he made a grab for the waiter and had him pack Mycroft’s lunch. In the cold light of reality, the absurdity of trying to protect Mycroft Holmes was creeping up on him again, but John was a doctor after all. The least he could do was make sure that the man ate a proper meal.

Mycroft had been his usual composed self when they parted ways, but John wasn’t fooled anymore. He saw the tightness around Mycroft’s eyes and remembered the emotions swirling behind them, he saw the knuckles, white where he clutched his umbrella, and recalled how cool and fragile those fingers felt. 

John was turning around the corner into Baker Street when he came to his conclusion. Taking care of Mycroft might be an undertaking even Hercules would have walked away from. But then, the demigod had never gone through the school of insane knocks that was John’s life. Nor, John reckoned, had Hercules ever been quite fatally attracted to a Holmes.

It was only when he entered his flat and saw the familiar clutter that John realised that for the first time since Sherlock’s death the void in his chest didn’t seem so endless anymore.


	9. Chapter 9

Getting in touch with Mycroft proved even more difficult than John had imagined. For a while he tried wandering the streets of London, excitement rushing through him whenever he spotted a black car only to be left disappointed when they didn’t stop. After a few days of this, his nerves were starting to fray, so he looked for a different approach. Remembering the texts Mycroft had sent to his mobile during the Bruce Partington affair, and thinking that perhaps he could use the number from which they had originated, John checked his inbox only to find that those messages had all mysteriously disappeared. It figured.

With a huff, he dropped the phone on the couch and went into the kitchen to make some tea. This wasn’t quite as hazardous as it used to be, John thought with a half-smile as he fetched the milk bottle from a fridge which was conspicuously devoid of severed body parts. He had started clearing out the flat when he came home from his lunch with Mycroft. It wasn’t that he had actually given any of Sherlock’s belongings away, he wasn’t quite ready to do that. But he had tidied up the kitchen and sitting room until the place felt less like a shrine and more like a home again. 

He put on the kettle and took a mug from the cabinet, rinsing it while he waited for the water to boil. It really wasn’t necessary anymore, now that the crockery was no longer appropriated as laboratory equipment. But despite the cathartic effect reclaiming the flat had had on John, this was one connection with Sherlock he wasn’t prepared to give up yet. The other one, John thought with grim determination, was his brother.

Taking the steaming mug back into the sitting room, John plopped down into his chair. It had been over a week since he’d last seen Mycroft. Time enough for John to come to terms with the realisation that he was, indeed, attracted to the man. The half-smile stole onto his face again. Sherlock would be aghast. Unfortunately, it was also time enough to start wondering why Mycroft hadn’t been in touch. Of course, he was a busy man, John knew that, and perhaps John’s longing to see him again, to make sure that he was okay, was warping his sense of time just a little bit. But he kept remembering the scene at the restaurant. Mycroft opening up like that, it had to mean something. John was convinced that there had been, well, something in those eyes, in the air between them. But then Mycroft had drawn away, had shut John out. Why was that?

John sipped his tea thoughtfully, glad for the calming effect it had on his system. Why had Mycroft drawn away? It hadn’t looked as if he was having second thoughts. At least not about John. If anything, he had seemed a tad regretful when he broke their contact, hadn’t he? John cursed into his mug. Bloody Holmeses. More trouble than they were worth. Then he sighed. Why bother pretending, when all the evidence pointed to the fact that to him, John Watson, they turned out to be worth just about any trouble at all.

It was time for a new plan.

***

“Sir?” Anthea had stopped tapping on her laptop. “He’s doing it again.”

Mycroft looked up from the Chinese export figures he was studying and resisted the urge to rub his neck. After three days of negotiations with Chinese officials and the twelve-hour flight from Hong Kong, all he wanted to do was take a shower and sleep for two days. Instead, he was gliding through the midday London traffic on his way to the office. What with the debriefing report to be written and several other matters he had meant to attend to before urgent business had required his presence in China, Mycroft supposed he’d be lucky if he made it home before midnight. With the ease that came with years of practice, he suppressed a sigh and turned to Anthea. Her expression was as bland as usual, but his keen eyes did not miss the hint of a smile in the corner of her mouth. 

“Who is doing what again?”

“John Watson, sir,” she said, pointing at the screen before her. “He’s prowling in front of the Hickman Gallery again.”

Mycroft looked at the grey images from several CCTV cameras. Each showed the entrance to the Gallery, the steps crowded with people, but Mycroft’s eyes had no trouble detecting the figure of a smallish man walking up and down the pavement in measured, cane-aided steps. He couldn’t help the lurch his heart made at the sight and hoped that Anthea hadn’t noticed the small hitch in his breathing. His eyes riveted on the scene, he found that she was right, John did look like he was prowling. The thought did rather interesting things to the pit of his stomach and Mycroft swiftly turned his gaze away. Anthea’s smile was somewhat more obvious now. 

He frowned as he recalled what she had said. 

“What did you mean, he’s doing it again?”

“He’s turned up at the Gallery every day for ten days now. Like a clockwork.” Anthea’s voice had returned to its usual professional tone. “Turns up at eleven-thirty, remains near the entrance for two hours, then goes about his business again. It’s in the report, sir,” she added more gently. 

Mycroft thought of the growing pile on the far side of his desk, the one he had not quite found the time to consult yet. Perhaps that had been a mistake. His frown deepened.

“That seems rather odd behaviour.”

When Anthea didn’t make a reply, he shot her a quizzical look and was surprised to find her regarding him with what could only be called fondness.

“If you say so, sir.”

This was exceedingly puzzling. “You… don’t think so?”

“No, sir.” There was that smile again.

Mycroft’s attention returned to the tiny figure on the screen. He couldn’t make out John’s expression at this distance, but his body language was eloquent as always. The slow pace said patience, the set of his back (straight) and chin (tucked down) said stubbornness. 

John was there for a purpose. 

The tiny man on the screen stopped and turned to look directly into one of the cameras, seemed to stare straight at Mycroft, willing him to understand. A thrill went through Mycroft’s body and his voice was a bit breathless as he gave his driver their new direction. 

Feeling quite dazed, he barely noticed Anthea’s approving smile.


	10. Chapter 10

_Finally_ , John thought as the black car pulled up to the kerb. Struggling not to let his excitement show too much, he waited as the tinted window slid down. 

“Would you happen to be available for lunch?” Mycroft asked and John’s heart melted at the nervousness peeking through the urbane exterior. 

“And about time, too,” he replied, smiling to take the sting out of his words. 

John knew that his affection must be obvious when Mycroft’s eyes widened a fraction before they fixed him with an intensity that made the heat pool in his stomach. John’s heart was hammering in his chest as his mind flickered back to their first meeting.

_Time to choose a side, Dr Watson._

John had taken that to mean a choice between Sherlock and Mycroft and even then had found it an impossible task. To be fair, all he had known about the two men at that point was that they were both brilliant nutters with more than a touch of the dramatic to them. But now it occurred to John that perhaps Mycroft had meant something else entirely. Perhaps the choice had been whether to stay or to go, whether to risk a life involving the Holmes brothers or go back to the security of an unexciting, ordinary life. 

John had made his choice that very evening, had written it in a serial killer’s blood. He might consider himself as average as they come, but he didn’t need any more pointers to realise that he thrived on the madness that swirled around Sherlock, ripping at the fabric of time-tested worldviews wherever he went. Sherlock had, of course, seen that from the start. As had Mycroft.

So this was a test, then, John realised. Mycroft was testing his mettle, very likely determining whether John would be worth his trust. John would have thought that obvious, but then remembered that for all their brilliance, the Holmes family were rather stinted in the emotions department. He refrained from rolling his eyes.

Instead, he stretched out his left hand, keeping his movement unhurried and even (which was as much for the benefit of making sure that Mycroft saw that his fingers were steady as it was to avoid startling his security detail which couldn’t be far away). When he wasn’t tackled to the ground by a brawny giant nor felt the press of a gun against his kidneys, John felt secure enough to reach through the open window and gently cup Mycroft’s face in his palm.

Mycroft’s eyelids fluttered shut and he leaned into the contact, and John simply had to brush his thumb over the too-prominent cheekbone. To his surprise, he felt a rough stubble under his fingers and as he looked closer he saw all the signs of exhaustion around the edges of Mycroft’s eyes, his mouth, and all John wanted to do was smoothen the lines away. _I want to take care of you_ , he thought and the intensity of his feelings made him rock slightly on his feet. 

But he couldn’t say that, not now, not here on a pavement in the middle of London. So he stroked his thumb over Mycroft’s skin one final time, trying to convey his feelings through touch alone, before reluctantly withdrawing his hand. 

“We should relocate, don’t you think,” he said quietly and Mycroft opened his eyes. He did look tired, John noticed with concern, but he also looked breathtaking. Colour had risen to his cheeks and with his eyes a deep black and his breath moving faster than usual through slightly parted lips, he was a sight to behold. A sight that from now on would feature heavily in his wet dreams, John knew.

Mycroft wouldn’t be Mycroft, though, if he couldn’t collect himself with impressive speed and a moment later he offered John a regretful smile. 

“Much as I would like that, I’m afraid I have some pressing business to attend to. But if you would be so inclined, perhaps we could have dinner tonight?” 

John considered this for a moment.

“I’ll agree to that on one condition,” he said, raising a finger for emphasis. “I’ll make dinner for us if Anthea promises to make sure that you have at least some light lunch before you start on your pressing business.” 

He bent at the waist to look past Mycroft to where Anthea was sitting at the far end of the backseat, grinning at him. It did not escape his notice that Mycroft had quickly suppressed a look of surprise at John’s deduction of Anthea’s presence. The thought cheered him immensely. If one was getting involved with a Holmes, he had long since learned, it was a good idea to keep them on their toes. It kept them interested. 

Satisfied that he had Anthea on his side, he turned back to Mycroft.

“Will seven o’clock do?”

“Very well,” said Mycroft with the air of a man who had no choice and John rewarded him with a delighted smile.

“Brilliant!”

Really, John thought as the car drew away, making Mycroft blush could become his favourite pastime. Among all those other things he wanted to do to Mycroft, of course. 

It was only when he turned to walk home that it occurred to John that he had no idea what to cook for a man as refined as Mycroft Holmes.


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft arrived on the doorstep of 221b Baker Street at precisely seven o’clock. It was Mrs Hudson who answered the door, her expression turning sorrowful when she recognised him. 

“Oh, Mr Holmes,” she said, laying a hand on his sleeve,. “Poor Sherlock….” She made a choked-off noise and appeared unable to carry on. Mycroft, not quite sure how to respond to this unexpected drama, hummed in what he hoped was a comforting manner and awkwardly patted the hand which, despite its small size, held his arm in a tight grip. 

“Mrs Hudson?” John was asking from the top of the stairs and Mycroft had never been happier to see the man. “Mrs Hudson, are you alright?”

“Yes dear, of course.” Mrs Hudson sobered instantly. She flashed an apologetic smile at Mycroft and, oddly enough, at John as well, who was descending the staircase, looking concerned. Mrs Hudson released his sleeve and turned to smile at John, but not before Mycroft caught her muttered, “Daft of me to worry him like that.” 

After John had been assured that, yes, Mrs Hudson was indeed well and, no, he really needn’t worry but should enjoy his evening (that one coming with a rather disconcerting wink from the old lady), he led a pensive Mycroft up the stairs. Daft or not, Mrs Hudson had just provided him with two unexpected insights. On the one hand, Mycroft was quite astonished at how Sherlock had managed to garner so much affection from the people around him. While this was indicative of the sort of emotional connections Mycroft had always wished for his brother to make, it made his latest suspicions about Sherlock’s death seem even more grim. 

The second discovery Mycroft had just made was that he ‘had it bad’ for John. Very bad, indeed. Of course he had known that John was a caring person, his profession as a doctor made that just as obvious as the topics of the few fights this usually easy-going man did have with Sherlock. 

Mycroft himself had responded to that caring attitude when it was directed at him, even if his reaction was little more than an instinct, at first. He was chagrined that it had taken him until today to see the truth. Whatever doubts might have remained when he arrived tonight, observing John’s inherent warmth and compassion from an outside perspective had dispersed even the faintest traces of uncertainty. Only a few minutes ago he would not have believed it possible, but seeing John fuss over his landlady, Mycroft found that he was intensely jealous of John’s attention. What was perhaps even more surprising was that Mycroft just couldn’t bring himself to exert his customary control and repress this reprehensible attitude. Not when all he wanted was for John to touch him again, to feel John’s warmth on his skin, his caress…

Once inside the sitting room, John stopped and turned towards Mycroft. They were standing less than an arm’s length apart and Mycroft was certain that John had just said something. He was looking at him expectantly and Mycroft tried to access his auditory memory, but was distracted by John’s closeness, the hint of nervousness in his smile, the steady hand hanging at his side. The hand that had touched him, had stroked him. And even as he remembered this, he watched, mesmerised, as the same hand rose slowly towards him. Mycroft’s breathing sped up and still the hand came closer, nearly reaching his face now. And then John took a step forward and they were almost touching, but not quite, and suddenly the hand was there, brushing over Mycroft’s cheek, the warm, capable fingers carding into his hair, pushing back further until the back of his head was cradled in John’s palm and he was pulled forward, downward, John’s breath ghosting over his skin, his voice so close, so intimate.

“So it’s desert first, then?”

Mycroft groaned as his entire body trembled, nerves tingling in his fingertips, his stomach, his groin. And suddenly he couldn’t bear it anymore, the distance between them. He was dimly aware of the clutter of his umbrella hitting the floor as he raised his hands to John’s face, drawing him closer. 

Their lips met gently, almost timidly, but then John melted against him with a soft moan, deepening their kiss, and Mycroft knew that he was well and truly lost.


	12. Chapter 12

“I miss him.” John’s voice was muffled as his face was currently pressed against Mycroft’s shirtfront. They had relocated to the sofa where Mycroft was now lying on his back with John snuggled against him, secure in the crook of Mycroft’s elbow, his own arm draped loosely over Mycroft’s chest.

For all the excitement still speeding through his veins, his earlier exhaustion had returned and was tugging at Mycroft’s mind more and more insistently. Lulled by the cosiness and warmth of John’s embrace, he had been on the brink of drifting off into slumber when John’s words startled him into complete awareness again. He tensed involuntarily and before he could make his body relax again, it was already too late. John had noticed.

“Mycroft?” he queried, raising his head to look at him, and his concern was so evident that Mycroft felt a rush of shame. He wanted to turn his head away, but knew that it was futile. John had already seen too much, judging by the frown creasing his brow.

“What is it?” John propped himself up on one elbow, lifting his torso to get a better view. Mycroft immediately regretted the loss of contact. As if sensing this, John’s free hand came up to rest, warm and strong, over Mycroft’s heart.

“It’s nothing,” Mycroft tried. “Just a silly thought.” It was a feeble attempt, but he really didn’t want to say, didn’t want John to think badly of him. Not now. Not when the thought of John rejecting him made it suddenly difficult to breathe. Mycroft felt his heart hammering against his ribs and knew that through the thin barrier of fabric and skin John could feel it too.

John huffed. “I’d bet good money that you haven’t had a single silly thought in your life.” He smiled, but his eyes were sad and Mycroft’s chest tightened along with this throat. His hands found John’s face and raising his upper body to reach him, Mycroft started pressing soft kisses to John’s cheeks, his eyes, his mouth.

For a while they lost themselves in the glorious intimacy of their lips and tongues, until Mycroft couldn’t ignore the strain in his neck any longer and lay back to rest his head on the Union Jack cushion. He felt that there should be some irony in that, but the thought scattered as John smiled at him dreamily.

“That was lovely.”

Mycroft returned the smile, brushing the back of his crooked fingers over the flush of John’s cheek. “Yes, it was.”

“But,” said John, his hand still splayed over Mycroft’s heart, “you still haven’t answered my question.” He sighed when Mycroft looked at him helplessly. “Please, Mycroft. You’re obviously uncomfortable about something and if we don’t deal with it now…well, in my experience delay only causes more trouble in the future. Also,” he broke off. His thumb started stroking over Mycroft’s heart while he drew a deep breath. “I know it’s not easy for you to trust me, or anyone for that matter…and perhaps I’m misinterpreting things completely here, I mean, we haven’t really spoken about…that is-”

He was stopped by Mycroft’s fingers on his lips. “Shh, John. You’re not misinterpreting anything. On the contrary, I’m quite astonished by your acuity. It is most…appealing.”

John’s startled laugh puffed against his skin and Mycroft found that quite arousing indeed. “It’s me whose interpretation has been faulty, I can see that now. And I apologise.”

“What do you mean?” John spoke against his fingers and Mycroft discovered that the movements of John’s lips against his skin was very distracting. He wondered what it would feel like to slip a finger into John’s mouth. His cock twitched. Ah, yes…

He stopped that thought in its tracks. John was waiting for an answer and he deserved one. If only John’s pupils weren’t so enticingly dilated. His breathing rate had increased, as had the pressure of the hand on his chest. The signs were so obvious that Mycroft felt even more foolish now. He suppressed the urge to squirm with practiced ease. This was John. John who deserved his honesty like no-one else. Even if that meant that he’d revise his opinion on Mycroft’s being silly. Or worse. Swallowing against the lump in his throat Mycroft slowly moved his hand from John’s mouth to wrap it around the fingers on his chest. How to start?

“As I am sure you would agree, our relationship was, right from the beginning, clearly defined by our relative positions to Sherlock. And though I admit that I developed an interest in your personality quite early on, you made it very clear that you considered our, ah, meetings an impingement on your personal life. You did keep calling them abductions,” he pointed out when John looked ready to protest.

John thought about that and gave a reluctant nod. Mycroft chose his next words carefully.

“When Sherlock…departed…I believed our connection to be severed, seeing as our only common interest was gone.” Mycroft paused. He had briefly debated telling John about his suspicions regarding Sherlock’s disappearance, but in the end decided against it. He didn’t have any definitive proof yet, so all he would achieve, really, was getting John’s hopes up. The thought of having to crush them if he turned out to be mistaken was more than Mycroft could bear. The sadness that had crept back into John’s eyes at the mention of his brother, only confirmed that this was the right course. He tried to ignore the small twinge in his chest and gave the hand he was still holding a gentle squeeze, the gesture a strange reversal of that time at the restaurant when John had reached out to him. That time when Mycroft had begun to realise just why the discontinuation of his meetings with John was affecting him so much.

Mycroft still found it hard to believe that John wanted him, Mycroft the man, not Mycroft, brother of Sherlock Holmes. And John had been right: he did find it hard to trust anyone. But he wanted to trust John, despite his misgivings. He wanted to trust John, who had done nothing to indicate that his interest in Mycroft wasn’t sincere. John, who was even now looking at him with undeniable fondness, concern and a hint of anxiety, still waiting patiently for Mycroft to sort out his thoughts and continue his convoluted explanation. And just as it had happened at the restaurant, Mycroft felt his heart opening up, overflowing with warmth and affection for this strange, brave man. And he wanted to reach out, to drawn John in and envelop him and keep him tight and safe and close and never let go.

John must have seen something in his expression, because the anxiety left his eyes, being replaced by a gleam that could only be called predatory, and Mycroft experienced a sharp thrill of anticipation. On his chest, John wriggled his fingers until they were interwoven with Mycroft’s own, then very pointedly lifted their joined hands to his mouth to kiss each of Mycroft’s knuckles, on after the other. _Severed connection, my arse_ , was the clear message, and Mycroft swallowed, enthralled by the heat of John’s gaze. And then John twisted their hands until Mycroft’s wrist was exposed and he pressed his lips to the sensitive skin there, sending an electric shiver straight through Mycroft’s body. The mouth opened slightly and a hot, wet tongue licked slow, deliberate circles into his skin and Mycroft gasped out a surprised moan.

“John-“

“Yes, Mycroft,” John asked politely, his breath puffing over the damp skin, sending more shivers through Mycroft’s body. Mycroft fought for coherence. And a tricky business this proved to be, what with John being so distracting. His tongue was slowly tracing Mycroft’s forefinger, the reality getting closer and closer to Mycroft’s earlier fantasy, and Mycroft’s bodily reactions refused to be controlled any longer. His breath was coming in short gasps now and his hips jerked as his fingertip was sucked, slowly, slowly, into the moist warmth of John’s mouth. John’s gaze flickered to the bulge that Mycroft’s mohair trousers did nothing to hide, and the gleam in his eyes when he looked up and found Mycroft staring was a promise as dark and powerful as the answering need it sparked in Mycroft’s guts. His eyes never leaving Mycroft’s, John’s teeth grazed over the sensitive pad of his finger and Mycroft’s breath hitched sharply.

And he desperately wanted to give in to the sensations, wanted to let go and be consumed by the fire that was John Watson, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Because there was still this unspoken thing between them and John had been right, they needed to dispose of it, and, oh God, John was sucking on his finger now.

“John,” he rasped, desperately. “John, please, I was-“

His finger was pulled from John’s mouth with a wet pop that made his cock grow even harder. He looked at John pleadingly, though what he was asking for exactly, he was not sure. He hoped John knew.

And John, brilliant, brilliant John, did. He drew away, opening the space between them, and the atmosphere changed as the heat dissipated, leaving behind a comfortable warmth. John turned their hands until they were clasped again and held them against his chest where Mycroft could feel the steady, if slightly elevated, heartbeat through the wool of John’s jumper. As Mycroft was calming down a bit, he started casting about for his still elusive thoughts.

“May I,” John asked, gently. Mycroft nodded even though he wasn’t quite sure what John was asking permission for.

“You were about to tell me how you assumed that, our only connection being Sherlock, any further acquaintance with you would have been unwelcome. You therefore concluded that when I agreed to have lunch with you the other day, I somehow only came along for Sherlock’s sake. Perhaps you expected me to want to talk about his death or perhaps take you on a stroll down memory lane?”

John was looking at him a little hesitantly, as if waiting for confirmation, but all Mycroft could do was refrain from gaping like a fool. It seemed to be enough for John though, whose expression turned thoughtful.

“You know, I kind of follow your reasoning up to that point. Which, to be honest, throws a more favourable light on my reasoning powers than yours.” John gave him a wry grin and Mycroft was quite proud of the weak smile he managed to produce in spite of the haze of wonder and arousal that clouded his mind. How had both he and Sherlock managed to underestimate John’s sharpness so spectacularly?

“It’s from there onwards that you really went a bit bonkers.” John frowned. “I mean, given the evidence, how could you not tell that I was, uhm, interested in you?”

Colour had crept into John's cheeks and ears and Mycroft suddenly felt much better because of it. He also very much wanted to kiss John, but knowing full well where this would lead, he suppressed that particular urge for the moment.

“It may seem odd to you,” he said eventually, feeling terribly awkward, “but I still don’t quite understand what you see in me. I do believe that you do…I mean that you are, well, interested. In me,” Mycroft tried to clarify. “However, in my profession one learns to question the motives of others. And with the incipience of your ‘interest’ coinciding with Sherlock’s departure,” Mycroft took a deep breath, “I feared that you might simply be relaying your…affection from him to me.” He trailed off uncertainly.

John, it seemed, had not Mycroft’s qualms about gaping. He was staring at Mycroft, who suddenly had the most curious desire to be swallowed by the sofa for, say, the next hundred years. Sleeping Embarrassment, as it were. He highly doubted, however, that his prince would forgive his frankly insulting insecurity and deign to kiss him even after a century had passed. He risked a glance at the man in question.

John had closed his mouth and was deep in thought. He had not let go of Mycroft’s hand yet and Mycroft hoped that this was a good sign. For a while, silence reigned. Then John spoke, and to Mycroft’s dismay his expression was as closed-off as it had been at their first meeting in the abandoned warehouse, when they had still been strangers. Fear gripped him in earnest then.

“If I understand you correctly,” John started slowly, “you assumed that I was in love with Sherlock.” He waited for Mycroft to nod, then went on. “You further assumed that, with Sherlock gone, I transferred my feelings from one Holmes to the other. Keeping it in the family, so to speak.”

Mycroft gave another miserable nod.

“I see.”

And Mycroft had to look away, didn’t want to see the disappointment in John’s eyes. Immediately, there was a tug on his hand, the grip on his fingers tightening.

“Look at me, Mycroft,” John ordered quietly, and Mycroft was compelled to obey. To his immense relief and confusion John didn’t look disappointed at all. John looked concerned.

Again, John seemed to read him perfectly. Letting go of Mycroft’s hand, he reached up to cup his cheek instead, just as he had done only a few hours earlier. “There certainly are a few traits you share with your brother,” John said quietly. “A truly tragic idiocy being one of them, I’m afraid.”

Mycroft was too stunned to even argue. He had no inkling whatsoever what John had in mind, but a flicker of hope was stirring inside him. Perhaps all was not lost yet.

“As strong as your mental faculties may be,” John went on, “you’re both completely oblivious when it comes to feelings and emotions.” He sighed, absently stroking a thumb over Mycroft’s cheekbone. For some reason this caused him to look more closely at Mycroft’s face, his mouth setting in a determined line.

“Right, I’ll make this as concise as I can, so listen closely. First of all, I am not, nor have I ever been in love with Sherlock. Secondly, you are not, in my eyes or anyone else’s who has two brain cells to knock together, comparable to your brother, much less an inferior version of him.” John’s demeanour had been stern, but now his gaze softened. “You are perfectly entitled to be loved for your own sake, Mycroft Holmes.”

Heat sprang to Mycroft’s eyes and his heart clenched. Never again would he underestimate John’s power of insight. It was as if he had looked straight inside Mycroft, at his darkest fear, the one he could not possibly have put into words, not even to himself. John’s thumb was stroking him again, wiping gently at the moisture that had gathered in the corner of Mycroft’s eye. And Mycroft knew that John cared for him, suddenly knew it with absolute certainty, and he felt helpless in the face of so much affection, so much acceptance. Overwhelmed, there really was only one thing he could do.

He let go, let himself fall, trusting with all his heart that John would be there to catch him, to hold him, to keep him.

He closed his eyes and John shifted, his weight now draped over Mycroft’s body, and again their roles were reversed when soft kisses alighted on Mycroft’s forehead, his eyelids, his cheekbones, even his nose. Eventually, John’s cheek brushed against his own and John’s voice, raspy with emotion, was close to his ear, sending goose bumps down Mycroft’s neck and up his scalp.

“I want only you, Mycroft. I don’t know how to convince you, but I will try, every day, until you believe me.”

And Mycroft, for the first time in his memory at a loss for words, wrapped his arms around John, and they lay together, hearts full, just touching and kissing, until exhaustion finally dragged them into sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

John had drawn up his chair close to the couch and was sitting, his feet propped up on the low table, a mug of tea in his hands, watching Mycroft sleep. In the faint morning light filtering through the curtains he looked peaceful, the lines smoothed from his face, his hair adorably tousled and John felt oddly proud of being responsible for the latter. Of having been allowed to touch Mycroft like that. 

It was an incongruous sight, he reflected, seeing the man who was essentially the British Government curled up under the colourful blanket John’s granny had knitted. As he watched the slow rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest, John felt warm affection spreading through his own. He reached out a hand to lightly touch the fine black hair, gently straightening the errand strands. Mycroft murmured something, but didn’t wake up. 

Not wanting to disturb his much-needed rest, John reluctantly withdrew his hand and wrapped it around his mug instead. Slowly sipping his tea, he recalled the events of the previous evening. Given Mycroft’s frankly astonishing degree of ignorance in matters of the heart, it really seemed a miracle that they had made it this far. John had a feeling that he had Anthea to thank for a large part of it and made a mental note to send her some flowers. Or maybe a rechargeable battery for her blackberry.

As if to reassure himself that he wasn’t dreaming, John reached out again, but stopped himself short before he could touch Mycroft’s head. He really wanted Mycroft to get as much sleep as he could, so he veered his hand away and tugged at the blanket instead, pulling it a bit higher over Mycroft’s shoulders. It had to be enough for now. With a small sigh, he sat back, nursing his tea thoughtfully. 

While he had been prepared to deal with a clueless Mycroft and more than willing to take the lead, it had never even occurred to him that Mycroft might be insecure about himself. Which was why it had taken John such a ridiculously long time to figure it out. It just hadn’t seemed possible. He still found it hard to empathise if truth be told. In his opinion, Mycroft was brilliant: marvellously smart, elegant, witty, not to mention deliciously tall and not at all hard on the eyes. John grinned into his tea mug. At least he didn’t have to worry about his own attractiveness to Mycroft. The memory of the enticing bulge in those expensive trousers sent a pleasant tingle down his spine even now. John allowed himself a few moments of blissful fantasies, then redirected his thoughts to the issue at hand.

While he himself was clearly smitten with Mycroft, he knew that a person’s self-perception wasn’t necessarily in line with how other people perceived them, and evoking a change, especially if that meant overcoming insecurities, could require a lot of patience for a long time.

His eyes roamed over Mycroft’s face again. The light was brighter now, exposing the hollowness of his cheeks, the fine lines around his eyes and on his forehead. All signs of a man caring a great deal and carrying too much of that burden by himself. Well, John thought, he couldn’t do much to relieve the weight for Mycroft the Government, but he would do anything in his power to support Mycroft the man. No longer able to resist, he reached out to stroke Mycroft’s soft hair once more. John smiled ruefully. Forbearance obviously wasn’t his strong suit where Mycroft was concerned. But he could be patient. Patience, after all, was an essential quality when dealing with a Holmes and John had proved again and again that he possessed it. And as for time… his fingers were tracing down the side of Mycroft’s face, brushing over the growing stubble there, and John marvelled again at being allowed to touch Mycroft like this. Time meant nothing when you had all the time in the world. 

Mycroft muttered in protest when John pulled his hand back. Smiling, John resumed his caress, watching Mycroft’s eyelids flutter, on the brink of waking up. 

“Sleep on, love,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft woke to the sound of whispering voices. Opening his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling, he swiftly took stock of his other senses. His body was cocooned in warmth and there was slightly scratchy sensation at his throat. A woollen blanket then. There was a faint smell of chemicals and tea (Baker Street) underlying a much stronger scent that made Mycroft’s pulse quicken. John. 

The whispered conversation had come to an end and there was the swish and click of a door being quietly closed. Mycroft turned his head in the direction of the sound, wincing at the crick in his neck. He was getting a bit too old for sleeping on sofas. Not that he’d ever done so before. 

His discomfort was quickly forgotten, however, when his gaze fell on John, who was just draping what looked like one of Mycroft’s suits over the backrest of Sherlock’s chair. John was looking positively rumpled and Mycroft felt an intense longing for the man as the memories of the night before flowed back. He had fallen asleep in the secure knowledge that John cared for him, wanted him even. But now, in the cold light of morning it seemed that sanity must reassert itself, carrying with it all the doubts and trepidations Mycroft was so familiar with. And yet… John had promised, hadn’t he? 

_I want only you, Mycroft._

He had been so sincere, so honest. Surely, if Mycroft had ever met an honest man in his life, it had to be John Watson. And he wanted to believe him, had, in fact, believed him last night.

Mycroft was certain that he had not made a sound, but John turned towards him, his face lighting up when he noticed that Mycroft was looking at him. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” said John, coming over to sit on the edge of the couch, his hand stroking Mycroft’s cheek.

“Good morning,” Mycroft breathed, feeling his apprehension melt away under John’s touch. John rewarded him with a smile so intimate it made Mycroft quiver and moments later John’s lips were on his own and Mycroft’s hands found John’s hair, his shoulders, drawing him closer, clinging to him like a drowning man to a life raft. Only, if this was drowning, then Mycroft was happy to go under, to immerse himself in John, his warmth, his-

Mycroft’s thoughts were interrupted by a rumbling noise that appeared to originate from his stomach. Embarrassment made him tense, but then John started chuckling and Mycroft’s expression thawed into a sheepish smile. 

“It’s high time we got some food into you.” John punctuated his declaration with a kiss on the tip of Mycroft’s nose. He thought for a moment. “There’s last night’s roast beef, that should go quite well with toast, I think, though I’m afraid the mash and peas shouldn’t be served cold. I could heat them up, if you like.” 

He looked doubtful though, and Mycroft recalled with some dismay that John had gone to the trouble to cook dinner for them and he had not savoured even a single bite of it. “I apologise,” he began, but John waved his concern away with a flick of his hand. 

“Don’t be silly,” John said. “I was quite in favour of your priorities last night.” He winked at Mycroft who felt his face flush. What was it about John that turned him into a blushing maiden so easily, he wondered wryly, but decided that he didn’t mind all that much. It was a small price to pay if it evoked the look John was giving him now. He hesitated to call it adoring, but knew it for only token resistance. 

_I don’t know how to convince you, but I will try, every day, until you believe me._

If this was how John intended to go about it, Mycroft reflected, his chances of success were better than Mycroft had dared hope.

“Nevertheless,” John was saying, rising from his perch, “you need to eat and I will make sure that you do. I mean, that is, if that’s alright with you,” he added hastily. Then, suddenly looking shy, “Also, if you don’t like roast beef, I’m sure I can find something else. There’s a deli down the street-”

“That’s quite alright,” Mycroft interrupted him, a pleasant warmth radiating through his chest. John relaxed a little. That wasn’t good enough, Mycroft decided and, taking care not to accidentally tread on the obviously home-made blanket, stood up. One step took him right into John’s personal space and he noticed with some satisfaction the small hitch in John’s breathing. Taking John’s face in both hands he looked deep into his eyes.

“John, I would happily eat beans on toast if it was you who prepared them.”

John let out a puff of laughter and Mycroft felt very pleased with himself. He bent down to steal a slow kiss from John’s lips, then released him. 

“I would, however, prefer to freshen up a bit before breakfast.” He wrinkled his nose at the state of his clothes and the taste in his mouth. To his immense chagrin he realised that while John had obviously brushed his teeth some time earlier, Mycroft must still have what he believed was called morning breath. John had not complained. In fact, given the slightly dazed expression he was currently wearing, it had had no ill effect on him at all. Still, Mycroft would not want to inflict this on John unnecessarily. 

“Of course,” John was saying. “I believe you know your way to the bathroom?”

Mycroft nodded. 

“Oh, and Anthea delivered a set of fresh clothes for you,” John said, indicating Sherlock’s chair. If John found this awkward, he gave no indication. It was unlikely that he did, though. Mycroft remembered the pact John had made with Anthea the day before, unfazed by the knowledge that she had only moments before been privy to his making advances at her boss.

“She’s quite perceptive, isn’t she,” John said quietly, but with a hint of a smile.

“Quite,” agreed Mycroft.


	15. Chapter 15

Mycroft, when he returned from the bathroom, looked as neat as ever in his three-piece suit and John felt the strong urge to run his fingers through the still slightly damp hair and muss it. His intentions must have been written all over his face because Mycroft cocked his head and regarded him sternly from under his eyebrows. The first time John had been on the receiving end of that particular admonishing look, he had felt like a schoolboy again, unable to resist the unspoken command and obediently holding out his hand for teacher’s inspection. Now, however, it sent a shiver of excitement through his body, no doubt fuelled by the images of a naked Mycroft under the shower which had featured in the cinema of his mind for the past fifteen minutes.

Suddenly, all John wanted to do was divest Mycroft of the frankly ridiculous amount of clothes he was wearing and then take the rest of the day to run his hands and mouth all over Mycroft’s naked skin, explore him and taste him. He wanted to make Mycroft moan his name again, wanted to see what he looked like aroused, what he sounded like when he was getting close, wanted to do that to him, give him that pleasure as an offering, a homage. Wanted him to know how much John wanted him, desired him. Loved him.

John stopped short. Love? When had he stopped falling and arrived…here? This was going much too fast. Wasn’t it? John wasn’t a fanciful man and he was well aware that his affection for Mycroft was largely based on his desire to help him, care for him when he was so obviously incapable of doing it himself. He was a doctor, after all. But that wasn’t the whole story, was it?

He remembered his meetings with Mycroft when Sherlock was still alive. Certainly, they had started as bizarre abductions with the sole purpose of Mycroft gleaning updates on Sherlock’s wellbeing that he could not obtain otherwise. But they hadn’t continued in that vein. In fact, John may have kept referring to them as abductions, but if he was honest with himself, he had begun looking forward to seeing Mycroft at some point and to the little insights into his life Mycroft would sometimes allow him. John remembered very clearly how touched he had been by Mycroft’s not-so-well-hidden surprise on the rare occasions a personal revelation would slip from his tongue and John had reacted with understanding rather than the censure Mycroft was obviously expecting.

It had all been there, John realised with start, if only he'd had sense enough to see it. All the sensitivity that lived under the efficient exterior of Mycroft Holmes, Political Genius, Government and Sensible Older Brother, and for the first time John wondered if Mycroft had ever been given a choice, in either role.

The pang that went through his heart at that moment dispelled the last reservations John may have held. He was, beyond a doubt, in love with Mycroft Holmes. And had been for a while, it seemed. Perhaps it was no wonder that such a quiet and fragile emotion only came to light when the whirlwind noise of Sherlock’s presence was removed. John immediately sent a mental apology to his dead friend. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, after all. He couldn’t help being the centre of gravity for the people around him. And John still missed him. Missed him very much. But he had told Mycroft the truth when he said that he had never had been in love with Sherlock. He had been the centre of John’s life, but not of his heart.

“John?”

John felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up, surprised to see that Mycroft’s face was all blurry. And without a warning it was the Gallery all over again, a lump rose in his throat and the tears began to fall. But this time there was nothing awkward about it, this time he was wasn’t ashamed that Mycroft saw him cry. And before he knew it, the hand on his shoulder had slid around his back and John was pulled close against a solid body, he could smell his own shower gel and Mycroft, and he slipped his arms under Mycroft’s jacket and wrapped them around him, holding on tight, listening to the rumble of Mycroft’s voice in his chest, the regular thumping of his heart, letting himself be soothed by Mycroft’s free hand stroking his hair.

“It’s alright love,” he heard Mycroft murmur. “It’s alright, I’m not going anywhere.”


	16. Chapter 16

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched even as he continued to comfort John. Despite John speaking, once more, into his shirt, he had caught the muffled, “That’s my line.”

It was John’s line, indeed, and Mycroft had never heard anything more gratifying in his life.

As he rocked John gently, waiting for his breathing to even out, Mycroft’s thoughts turned dark again. Anger coiled tightly in his stomach as the suspicion that John was suffering needlessly solidified in his mind. Right then, Mycroft decided to go visit the Reichenbach Falls again, that very day. There must be something he had overlooked, some way that Sherlock had managed to mislead him.

Mycroft smiled grimly, rubbing slow circles into John’s back. The thought of Sherlock outwitting him didn’t grate as much as a witness to their ongoing sibling rivalry might have suspected. First of all, it was Sherlock who insisted on sustaining it far beyond reason, not Mycroft. And then, in the end, Mycroft always turned out to be the one having the last laugh. Only this time, Sherlock had better beware. Mycroft was not in a laughing mood.

His grip on John tightened and he pressed a kiss into the short blond hair. No-one hurt John Watson without facing the consequences. Not even his little brother.

In his arms, John sighed and gently pushed against Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft loosened his hold and carefully blanked his face before John could notice the murderous intent in his eyes. “Feeling better?”

John nodded, not quite meeting Mycroft’s gaze. “Thank you.” He heaved another sigh. “I’m sorry. You must think me terribly soppy. Look, I even ruined your new shirt!” His fingers fluttered over Mycroft’s chest in a vain attempt to smooth the wrinkles in his garments.

“Not at all,” Mycroft said, gently covering John’s hands with his own and flattening them against his body. Their warmth still amazed him. Mycroft wished he could convey to John just how much his pain affected him, how much he wanted to make it better, how honoured he felt that that John trusted him enough to lean on him for support, to let him see him in this vulnerable state. But Mycroft didn’t have the vocabulary, had never needed it before, so the best he could do was repeat himself, “not at all,” put all his heart behind the words, and hope it would be enough.

John rewarded him with a small smile Mycroft couldn’t help but return. “Breakfast?” asked John and Mycroft hesitated. The morning was moving on and he wanted to get to Switzerland as quickly as possible.

John’s expression grew stern. “Do I have to turn it into an order?”

Mycroft tried to suppressed his amusement, but apparently with little success. John rolled his eyes. “Really, you’re just as bad as Sherlock. Did no one ever teach the two of you that the brain needs regular nutrition just as much as the body?” He freed one of his hands to jab a finger at Mycroft’s chest. “You’ll have some breakfast now and then you can be off to whatever important business needs your attention, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and marched towards the kitchen, still speaking. “I’ll pack you some lunch as well. And I will check with Anthea if you’ve eaten it, too, make no mistake,” he added, wagging a finger in the air.

For a long moment, Mycroft just stood there, blinking at John’s back, not bothering to fight the stupid smile that was spreading over his face. With an amazed shake of his head, he finally followed John into the kitchen.

***

After breakfast, Mycroft called Anthea from the sitting room while John was preparing sandwiches for him in the kitchen. Satisfied that by the time his car was sent around all necessary arrangements for his trip would be taken care of, he hung up and returned to John.

John looked up at his approach and smiled, making Mycroft’s heart lurch. He really didn’t want to leave. But duty called and more than that, shedding light on Sherlock’s disappearance would benefit John just as much as it did Mycroft. Why then was it so difficult to convince himself? He had never had any trouble sorting out his priorities before. And yet he knew that if he gave in to his impulse to touch John now, touching would soon turn into kissing and that would be even harder to draw away from. And as much appeal as the idea of spending the day in John’s arms had, he simply couldn’t afford it. He did have a rather demanding job, after all, and while he could get at least some work done while travelling, he was certain now that being in such close physical proximity to John would be far too distracting.

“I’m afraid I shall have to go abroad for a few days,” he said eventually.

John’s smile turned wistful. “Yes, I gathered as much.” He looked down at the sandwich before him, adding some finishing touches. “Just promise me you’ll eat properly?”

“I will.”

“That’s alright then,” John said and Mycroft felt oddly helpless as he watched John stuffing the sandwiches into a paper bag.

“John,” Mycroft started. “John, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” John said and he didn’t sound upset. “I know you’re a busy man.”

Mycroft nodded, he really didn’t have anything to add to that. Then a thought occurred to him. “I expect I shall return before the weekend. Could I, that is, would you-“ Oh dear. This had been so much easier when he could just whisk the man off the street! John was watching him expectantly, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Mycroft sighed. “Would you like to go out with me on Friday night?”

John grinned. “I would like that very much.”

Mycroft knew that his relief must be plain on his face, but he was quickly learning that he wasn’t all that bothered about it when it was John who witnessed these little slip-ups. His phone buzzed in his pocket. “My car is here,” he said regretfully and John nodded, following him out into the sitting room where Mycroft collected his umbrella and the suit he’d worn the night before. They stopped at the door that lead to the upper landing, facing each other.

“Here,” John said, smiling, and handed Mycroft the paper bag containing his lunch. Their fingers brushed and John’s eyes grew a little wider and Mycroft was drawn by their silent appeal like a moth to the flame. He leaned in to place a gentle kiss, a promise, on John’s mouth, but then John’s lips parted and there was a hot, wet tongue and Mycroft quickly shifted the paper bag to his other hand so he could draw John closer. John moaned quietly into his mouth and pressed himself into Mycroft’s body, his hands finding Mycroft’s neck, his buttocks, and then he was rolling his hips and, oh… Mycroft groaned as he felt something hard grinding into his thigh.

“John-“

John drew away, slowly, his kisses gentling, his fingers stroking through the fine hair at Mycroft’s neck, and they stood, panting and staring at each other, a silent pledge between them. John’s voice was as unsteady as his smile when he said, “Just so’s you won’t forget me.”

“Never,” Mycroft breathed. “Never.”

If Anthea noticed the rumpled state of Mycroft’s clothes as he stepped into the waiting car or, indeed, his flushed face and slightly swollen lips, she did not comment.


	17. Chapter 17

YOU DECEITFUL LITTLE PRICK! - MYCROFT

LANGUAGE, MYCROFT! TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH TO FIGURE IT OUT. CAN YOU CABLE MONEY? - SH

NEVER MIND ABOUT THAT. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING. JW IS DEVASTATED. - MYCROFT

HUNTING DOWN M’S UPPER ECHELON. ONE DOWN, TWO TO GO. WHAT’S IT TO YOU? - SH  
AND WHAT ABOUT THE MONEY? - SH

WHAT HAPPENED TO MORIARTY? MONEY IS ON THE WAY. DO YOU NEED ANYTHING ELSE? I CARE ABOUT PEOPLE, UNLIKE YOU. - MYCROFT

M’S DEAD. MIGHT DO, WILL LET YOU KNOW. YOU CARE? - SH  
ABOUT JW? - SH  
I SEE. - SH

I DON’T BELIEVE YOU DO. YOU HURT HIM. - MYCROFT

HE CAN’T KNOW, TOO DANGEROUS. - SH  
YOU MUST KNOW THAT, MYCROFT! - SH  
MYCROFT? - SH

BE CAREFUL, SHERLOCK. - MYCROFT

Mycroft let the phone sink to his lap. Relief over finding Sherlock alive and well was quickly superseded by the unpleasant realisation that his brother was right. Moriarty’s organisation was large and far-reaching and despite his best efforts, all Mycroft had accomplished so far was find and cut a few of the strings in the web. If Sherlock was to be believed, and Mycroft had little reason to doubt his brother on this count, Moriarty himself had been dead for a few months now, and Mycroft was still nowhere nearer to unravelling his network than before. 

These people were powerful and they were clever, even with their mastermind gone. It took no great leap of imagination to expect them to be just as suspicious of Sherlock’s supposed death as Mycroft had been. And who better to observe for any indication of change than Sherlock’s loyal flatmate and best friend. His clearly devastated flatmate and best friend. It was what Mycroft would do. What Mycroft had done, in fact, if not for quite the same reasons. 

Which meant, of course, that his own interaction with John was known to Moriarty’s people as well. Mycroft paled as the corollary realisation struck him: he himself had, unwittingly, foolishly, put a further spotlight on John. Any change would attract attention. And as his former meetings with John had only been sporadic and at least semi-public, their new intimacy would certainly be noticed. The brief idea to cover things up and go back to the way they were before was quickly dismissed. First of all, there was no hope that they had not been observed in the middle of the day, right in front of the Hickman Gallery. And Mycroft didn’t really need to remember that first touch of John’s hand on his cheek, the gentle caress of his thumb, the affection and care so plain in John’s eyes, to know that is was far too late to turn back now. Even if standing by John meant that Mycroft, who was by nature and occupation an inconspicuous man, would be forced into a higher degree of exposure. 

Mycroft allowed himself a small grimace as he imagined what his chief of security would make of that. Well, the man would have to deal with it and that was that. Since the damage was already done, all Mycroft could do was try to limit its extent. And as pulling away and leaving John on his own was out of the question, there really was only one possible course of action. Mycroft would have to be seen to have given up his own investigations into the Moriarty organisation. If that meant that he had to make certain that his connection with John was observably the personal affair it was, well, that might even be the one ray of light in this entire mess. He did not labour under the illusion that Moriarty’s people would simply forget about him or John only because they were getting involved, but it might just give Sherlock the time and cover he needed to follow his own course. 

Perhaps it was just as well, Mycroft reflected. After all, it wasn’t as if he had been very successful in his pursuit of the Moriarty case in the first place and Mycroft was prepared to admit that, in the end, Sherlock might well be their best hope if they wanted to root out this particular evil. 

He only wished this didn’t mean that he would have to deceive John. The irony was enough to drive a man to drinking, he thought sourly. Here he was, self-proclaimed protector of John Watson, but not only was he unable to relieve John of the pain he was suffering quite unnecessarily, he was likely to cause him even more distress in the long run. Because one day his deception would surely come to light and then it would be, to borrow a phrase, good night Vienna. 

Mycroft slipped the phone into his pocket and rang for a drink.


	18. Chapter 18

John didn’t see Mycroft the following Friday. He received a message though, in which Mycroft conveyed his deepest regrets and promised to contact John again as soon as he could.

John sighed and moved the text into the saved items folder on his mobile. He knew enough about Mycroft’s job not to be surprised by this, but the knowledge didn’t do much to dampen his disappointment. He missed Mycroft. Also, he had hoped for some after-dinner entertainment that featured a comfy bed, low lights and two naked men, one of whom would now have to be replaced by the trusty stand-in, Mr Hand. It was a shame, really. 

Re-reading Mycroft’s message, another thought occurred to him, causing unease to stir in his stomach. Hadn’t Sherlock said that Mycroft never texted when he could talk? Why then hadn’t he called? Could something have happened? Was Mycroft in danger? John sighed again. Brilliant. Now he could add concern about Mycroft’s wellbeing to the mix of unpleasant emotions. 

He gave a rueful chuckle. He’d never have thought that one day he’d be pining and sighing in a manner that would put the heroine of a regency novel to shame. It was all Mycroft’s fault, of course, with his mysterious stranger act and charmingly stilted diction.

_Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?_

Obviously not. But, John thought, he might manage a swoon if he really tried. A spot of the vapours perhaps?

He shook his head. Evidently absence not only made the heart grow fonder, it also made the head grow softer. He resolutely suppressed a further sigh and squared his jaw. Mycroft had managed to survive this far without John playing the mother hen, so there was a good chance that he would continue to do so. And wasn’t that what trust was all about? Believing that the other person was able to cope? And Mycroft had been well enough to text, after all. 

At least, John thought, he could find solace in the knowledge that Mycroft was much more level-headed than his brother and thus far less likely to risk his life just to prove that he was clever. Not the most difficult accomplishment, granted, but it would have to be enough to allay John’s concern until he could lay his eyes and hands on Mycroft again to reassure himself that he was indeed well. 

Meanwhile, John would just have to find something else to occupy his time. His gaze roamed across the flat and finally fell on his laptop, sitting forgotten and untouched on his desk since Sherlock had gone. It seemed to stare back at him, mocking him. I’m all yours, it seemed to say, sitting just where you left me. John didn’t know how many times he’d snatched it from under Sherlock’s hands, whose blatant disregard for personal boundaries was even more exasperating since it was really just the product of his being too lazy to fetch his own computer from his room--or the other end of the sitting room, for that matter. These days, it turned out, John would gladly give an arm and a leg for one more chance to gripe at Sherlock about it. Hell, he’d let him keep the bloody thing if only, if only… 

His chest tightened as it always did when he thought of Sherlock, acutely feeling his absence from their flat and from his life. John’s vision blurred and he cursed viscously, trying to hold the treacherous tears back, but to no avail. 

He wiped at his eyes angrily. Where did they even come from? Before the incident at the Hickman Gallery John hadn’t cried since the day his father died. And even that had been years before Afghanistan. The horrors he had witnessed there were too atrocious for words, too immense for tears. But John was a doctor, he had needed to deal with the situation, for his own sake and for the sake of the soldiers whose lives were in his hands. So he did. He had returned to England a changed man, stoic to the point where the only emotion he really felt was frustration, at his invalidity, his life, and some things he didn’t have a name for. 

His therapist had seen this, but she had never made it past the trust issues, of course.

Unlikely as it seemed, it had taken a Sherlock Holmes to make him feel again. Sherlock had made him feel alive again. 

John grimaced as he brushed a sleeve over his eyes. As if sighing and pining for one Holmes wasn’t bad enough, the other one kept turning him into a puddle! A smile tugged at his lips as he imagined what Sherlock’s reaction would be. He’d be horrified by this blatant emotionalism and probably keep eyeing John warily until he came to his senses again. Not so Mycroft. John’s smile became tender as he remembered being rocked, gently, in Mycroft’s embrace, the hand in his hair, the soft fabric of his shirt under his cheek, a button pressing into John’s skin. He hadn’t minded, just listened to the voice rumbling in the chest under his ear, the strong heartbeat, feeling accepted, protected, loved. 

John blinked his eyes, returning to the present. His life, he reflected, had certainly taken a few strange turns recently, but with one major exception they were all good. Very good, indeed.

He straightened his posture, took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Right. Time to take charge again.

Pressing the reply button on his mobile, he typed,

SEE YOU VERY SOON. XOX \- JOHN

Then he sat down at the desk and opened his laptop.


	19. Chapter 19

SEE YOU VERY SOON. XOX \- JOHN

Mycroft couldn’t keep the smile from his face as his own words were returned to him. At the time Mycroft had uttered them, John had not looked all that happy, influenced, of course, by Sherlock’s recalcitrant behaviour and John’s loyalty towards his friend. But he had had risen from the coffee table he was perched on and taken Mycroft’s offered hand, not drawing away even when Mycroft’s touch lingered longer than strictly necessary. And Mycroft, always challenged by John’s insistence on remaining unfazed in his presence, had delivered his words with as much dark innuendo as he could muster. Which, to his mild annoyance, had had no discernible effect on John either. 

Mycroft's smile widened. All the same, John evidently recalled the scene with some clarity, which meant that Mycroft had made an impact, after all. He could not deny that this provided him with some small degree of satisfaction, even though his relationship with John had since moved far beyond these petty games. Very well then. Mycroft glanced at his phone again. Now all he had to do was determine what the abbreviation ‘xox’ stood for. 

Five seconds later, Mycroft flushed with pleasure. 

Which only led to an increase in his already strong yearning to be with John. He had been waging a futile battle against this particular feeling ever since he had left the Baker Street flat a few days ago. If Mycroft had thought that putting a physical distance between John and himself would benefit his ability to work, he quickly learned that, having left out a deciding factor in his calculation, he had committed a grave error in judgment. He attributed this blunder to his inexperience with personal associations beyond either his family or his work. How could he, under these circumstances, be expected to know that being away from John would prove even more distracting that being with him!

Whether he tried to concentrate on the latest troop movements in Afghanistan or the proposed cost cuts for the NHS, John’s face would rise before his mind's eye, and he could almost feel John’s gaze again, full of promise, his warm hand on Mycroft’s face and in his hair, the softness of his lips, the probing tongue, the colour in his cheeks. And inevitably his words whispered through Mycroft’s mind.

_I want only you._

_I’m not going anywhere._

_Sleep on, love._

_Love._

Meetings with foreign dignitaries had never seemed so meaningless, and at one point Mycroft was drawn from his contemplation of the shape of John’s mouth when it quirked into a smile only to find himself in a nondescript meeting room, surrounded by not-at-all nondescript men and women, whose eyes were all trained on him speculatively. The Russian ambassador had even given him a knowing smirk. Mycroft suppressed a shudder at the memory. This simply wouldn’t do. Mycroft knew that the reason why he was such an asset to his country was precisely that he never got bogged down by personal affairs. Only his quick wit and considerable experience had prevented the harm to Britain’s position he had nearly caused. Still, it had been close enough for Mycroft to refocus on his immediate priorities.

Nevertheless, it was with a heavy heart that he reneged on his date with John. He had barely returned from Switzerland when the urgent request from the CIA came in. It could not be refused. In an unheard-of surge of rebellion, however, Mycroft did not hurry to take the afternoon flight to Virginia, but took his time to have what John would have called a proper meal first and boarded the red-eye flight instead. As he was rushed to the airport, he mentally apologised to John and promised to catch some sleep on the plane. 

When it became clear that he would be detained in the States for at least another week, Mycroft came as close to cursing as he ever had in his life. He couldn’t even use the bloody landline from Langley for fear of drawing even more unwanted attention towards John. So he had texted him instead, feeling very keenly his gross inadequacy when it came to expressing his feelings. He barely quelled a wince when he finally pressed the send button, certain that he had just put the final nail in his coffin. 

The following twenty-seven minutes were the longest in his life. 

And then his phone chimed. His heart pounding in his ears, his hand shaking as if he had caught John’s intermittent tremor, he opened the message, bracing himself for the worst. 

Mycroft recognised the phrase immediately and the flood of relief at its implications was so powerful, he was left feeling dizzy in its wake. The memory of the day he had visited Sherlock and John helped to calm him down, but the warm glow in his chest remained, increasing steadily with each new realisation.

XOX, it turned out, symbolised hugs and kisses.

And there were John’s hands on his skin again, his lips, his warm voice.

_I’m not going anywhere, love._

_You really aren’t, are you_ , Mycroft thought in some wonderment. He couldn’t help his eyes misting over as he made a silent vow. _I’ll be home soon, John, very soon. Please wait for me._

He took a moment to regain his composure, wishing he had his umbrella with him. It was such a splendid tool, providing him with no mean amount of comfort and acting as an extraordinarily efficient exhortation aid. Unfortunately, it hadn’t made it past the CIA’s security check. Surely, this was taking paranoia too far, but Mycroft had refrained from arguing. Wars could be started over the silliest things!

Well, it couldn’t be helped. He’d have to resort to his other means of persuasion then. He smiled again, but this time the glint in his eyes would have made even Sherlock pause. 

This time, Mycroft was on a mission.


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft stretched his legs and wriggled his toes to get the circulation going again as the plane was rolling towards its parking position at Heathrow Airport. Business Class did have its merits, but travelling always exhausted him, no matter the relative comforts he was afforded due to his position. He drew the pocket watch from his waistcoat and frowned as he readjusted it to Greenwich Mean Time. It was almost two in the morning. Too late to call on John.

The sign above his head went out with a delicate ping, and as he unfastened the buckle of his seat belt Mycroft could hear the commotion behind him as overhead lockers were opened and mobile phones connected to networks. Mycroft had always wondered at the rush people seemed to be in on these occasions. It usually took the cabin crew several minutes to get the plane ready for debarkation, but oddly enough people seemed to prefer standing with their heads bent sideways under the low ceiling of the plane, rather than wait in more comfort until they could depart in an orderly fashion. 

Today, however, Mycroft found that he could empathise. In all the time he had travelled around the world, he had never been more eager to touch English soil again. He smiled at the flight attendant who handed him his coat, umbrella and hand luggage and followed her to the door. With a few polite words he took his leave and quickly stepped into the airport taxi that was waiting at the foot of the steps to take him straight to customs. Mycroft looked out at the myriads of Airport lights, blurred into strange patterns by the raindrops on the window, and thought of John. He wanted to be with him very badly indeed, but despite his growing confidence in John’s affection, Mycroft feared the consequences should it turn out that John did not appreciate being roused in the middle of the night. His gaze fell to his hands, pale and mottled in the uneven light. He frowned. _Frailty, thy name is Mycroft._

Why was it that he could bully a roomful of highly decorated American generals into complying with his wishes, all the while maintaining the illusion that it was all their idea in the first place, but was frantically cautious when he trod near John for fear of misstepping and falling to his doom? He paused. Well, perhaps that was a bit much. After all, wasn’t Sherlock supposed to be the histrionic character in the family?

_Well, thank God you’re above all that._

The memory of John’s words, his dry irony, drew a smile from Mycroft. That settled it then. Instead of a highly dramatic late-night invasion, he would allow John to rest. After all, Mycroft had waited for over a week, he could survive a few hours longer.

Knowing from experience that despite his current exhaustion the jet lag would catch up with him soon, Mycroft decided that he would head to the office rather than home, where all he could do was stare at his watch and count the slow minutes until he could finally present himself to John. If nothing else, the work should at least provide him with some distraction. He wondered if he could at least allow himself the small indulgence to take a detour along Baker Street. Highly irrational as such an action would be--after all, what could staring at a house front in the middle of a rainy night possibly accomplish--the attractive force that drew Mycroft towards John was deaf to sensible reasoning. 

Mycroft knew that he would give in to this urge, but he couldn’t help feeling uneasy. This conflict between his emotions and his mind was draining, to say the least, and he wasn’t comfortable with it at all. He had never experienced this before, simply because the opportunity had not arisen. Never before had he wanted someone as much as he wanted John. Wanted John and, he was reluctant to acknowledge, needed him. It was a frightening thought for Mycroft, who had always been a provider, first to his brother, then his country. But now he found himself out of his depth, not knowing how far he would go, what he would do if John asked it of him. Anything within his power, he suspected. He would do anything for John.

For a panicky moment he wished he had Sherlock’s ability to detach himself from people, his knack for being a force onto himself, as independent as a man could be. But that wasn’t true, was it? Sherlock himself had succumbed to the quiet influence of John Watson. Even Sherlock had formed a bond with him, perhaps the first real bond in his adult life. And more importantly: Mycroft had witnessed the beneficial impact of John’s friendship on Sherlock, beneficial beyond the scope of what he (or, indeed, Sherlock) had imagined possible.

Mycroft remembered the first touch of John’s hand, the compassion in his eyes, and he remembered how he himself had just let go. Then and that night on John’s sofa as well. And he remembered how free he had felt, liberated and at the same time secure in the knowledge that John was there, holding him in his capable hands. And suddenly Mycroft knew that he wanted more of that. He didn’t want to hide behind his reason any longer, just because he was too scared to allow himself to feel. But how could he shake the habit of a lifetime? Where would he even start? 

John. John would know what to do.

Mycroft felt light-headed even as his resolve hardened. Waiting was no longer an option, he needed to be with John, now. Mycroft looked at his hands again and slowly, deliberately curled them into fists. He smiled.

When he finally made it out of the airport, Mycroft found his car waiting for him. He rapped his knuckles lightly on the window to get his driver’s attention and the man scurried to take his luggage and stow it in the car’s boot. Mycroft stepped to the rear door, raising his eyebrows in surprise as it opened before his hand even touched the handle. His heart sank. Had Anthea come on some urgent business? But no, she would have informed him as soon as the crisis arose. Also, she was very insistent on obtaining what she called her ‘beauty sleep’. It was therefore unlikely that she would come to pick him up out of mere sociability. Not Anthea, then.

As the door opened wider, a blond mop of hair came into view, then a familiar face sporting an impish smile. 

“John,” Mycroft breathed.

John’s grin widened with obvious delight at the success of his surprise.

“Care for a lift?” he asked, shuffling over to make room.

It was with great difficulty that Mycroft held on to his composure as everything inside him screamed to get closer to John. Closer. Touching. Tasting. 

The hand holding his umbrella trembled in unison with his heart.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he replied with as much equilibrium as he could muster. “221b Baker Street,” he directed the driver, who didn’t even twitch a muscle. Mycroft did not often have occasion to envy another man’s impassivity, but at that moment he came very close. Then again, he mused as he slipped onto the backseat, the man did not have to contend with the irresistible force that was John Watson.


	21. Chapter 21

To say that John was surprised when he opened the front door and found himself face to face with Anthea, blackberry in hand, bland smile on her lips, would not be entirely accurate. His tolerance for the unexpected had risen dramatically since that fateful question, _Afghanistan or Iraq?_ , had been directed at him. Still, he thought as Anthea brushed past him and headed straight up to his flat, it would be nice if, just once in a while, people could make an appointment instead of just breezing into and out of his life at their leisure. 

With a resigned sigh he shut the door and followed Anthea up the stairs.

It was the morning after his first blog entry since Sherlock’s death and John had a good idea that Anthea’s visit might be apropos of that. It would be stupid to assume that Mycroft’s people weren’t keeping tabs on him. John mentally went over what he had written, searching for anything that might be objectionable, but couldn’t come up with anything. Rifling through the files on his hard drive, he had found a number of yet unpublished accounts of his adventures with Sherlock and decided that they would make good blogging material. Also, there was something bitter-sweet about reliving his time with Sherlock like this. His therapist, John thought wryly, would be thrilled. Accordingly, his blog entry had been an account of one of their shorter adventures, a cunning, but ultimately doomed, murder scheme involving a sizeable inheritance and snake venom. Though an intriguing puzzle, the case was nothing of particular interest to the Government and certainly nothing that the general public didn’t know about already. 

Declining his offer of tea, Anthea came straight to the point. 

“I understand that you have taken up your writing again.”

It wasn’t a question, so John didn’t reply, just regarded her steadily. He was sitting in his own chair while Anthea was perched, very primly, on the edge of Sherlock’s armchair. John could have sworn that she had headed for the couch first, but then steered away from it. Of course, he realised, she had seen Mycroft sleeping there when she had delivered his suit. What else must she be imagining had happened on it? John hid a smirk. It was satisfying to know that even Anthea could be ruffled sometimes. This led to his mind coming up with various sultry images of Mycroft suitable to produce such an effect and it took a while until he registered the delicate clearing of a throat. 

As he resurfaced, he found Anthea watching him with considerably more warmth in her gaze than before. John noticed that he was smiling dreamily and quickly rearranged his features into a more sober expression.

“John,” Anthea said mildly, “I came here to warn you about revealing too much, ah, personal information on your blog, especially information pertaining to Mr Holmes. But I suppose I needn’t worry about that?”

“Of course not!” John was flustered. “I would never willingly compromise or endanger him.“

Anthea held up a placating hand. “No, I can see that. So,” she added, looking around the flat, “how are you doing? You know, without your…flatmate.”

John was quite taken aback. Was Anthea actually trying her hand at small talk? Or, even more incredulously, compassion?

Anthea laughed lightly. “You don’t have to look so shocked. I do care about your wellbeing.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Because I care about Mr Holmes.” John could feel the sudden weight of her gaze on him. “And so do you.”

John swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

Anthea gave him a long scrutinising look and John wondered how so diminutive a person could wield so much authority. But then, the answer was really very simple. It was because she was fond, very fond, of Mycroft. And not only had she been so for a long time, she also had probably been quite alone on that front. John had no doubt that Mycroft was respected, but few people would dare befriend him, and even fewer would get close enough to like him, to care. Anthea was being protective! Gauging John’s worth as he stepped into this exclusive inner circle where hardly anyone had ever been allowed. 

John relaxed. He knew that this was a test he couldn’t fail. And he saw that Anthea knew it too when her expression melted into the first genuine smile he had ever seen on her face.

With typical efficiency, she wasted no more words, but abruptly rose from her chair. Clearly, the interview was over and John had been given the job. It was odd, John thought, but he was kind of glad that he had met with Anthea’s approval. He wondered if the reverse was true as well. Although she had already proven herself to be a valuable ally in his quest to ensure Mycroft’s good health, discovering that Anthea truly cared about Mycroft had improved John’s opinion of her immensely. 

He escorted her to the front door where he took her offered hand. “Take care, John.”

“You too,” he replied warmly, returning her firm grip.

“Oh, and John,” Anthea added, wrinkling her nose at the grey sky as she stepped outside, “he’ll land at Heathrow tomorrow night. I’ll send the car around at half one.”

John stood grinning widely at the shut door for a moment, before he bound up the stairs again, busily creating a mental list of all the preparations he needed to make.


	22. Chapter 22

As John was fumbling with the front door lock, he could feel Mycroft’s presence like a physical touch at his back. Every nerve in his body was tingling as the short hairs on his neck stood up. Mycroft had kept his distance during the half-hour ride back to Baker Street, but John had seen the hunger in his eyes. The air between them had been too close, too dense for conversation, and practically buzzing with an electrical anticipation that made John grow half-hard already. 

Finally, he managed to open the door and, moving out of the way, allowed Mycroft to step inside. Again, Mycroft avoided touching him, but John’s skin burned under his dark gaze, his ears were blazing, and he had to close his eyes or be consumed by the sheer intensity. Which, of course, only served to sharpen his sense of smell. He shivered as it whiffed by him: the metallic tang of moist wool, a hint of expensive cologne that said _Mycroft_ like nothing else. And John breathed in deeply, wanting to fill his lungs to the limits, until he was satiated, gorged on Mycroft’s scent alone.

“John.”

John blinked and found himself still standing on the doorstep while Mycroft was waiting, tall and elegant and utterly otherworldly in Mrs Hudson’s hallway. For a moment John was paralysed by the out-and-out unreality of it all. But then Mycroft smiled, very slowly, very privately and John’s breath hitched even as his innards turned to liquid and his knees threatened to give in. And he was all at once very hard and not a little afraid. 

He had never felt more alive.

“The most dangerous man I’ll ever meet,” he muttered, closing the door behind him. He slowly stepped forwards, stopping only when he was standing directly in front of Mycroft. “Sherlock was right.” This close up, Mycroft’s scent was overwhelming. John’s eyelids fluttered closed as, unable to resist any longer, he leaned forward and inhaled deeply.

“Oh, was he?” Mycroft’s voice was low, reverberating through John’s bones. His breath ghosted across John’s face, making his scalp tingle and his skin break out in goose bumps. John swallowed a whimper. This was too intense, far more than he could cope with. He felt electrified to the tips of his hair, too much sensation thrilling over his skin and through his nerves, his blood. 

And yet it wasn’t enough. He yearned for more. More contact, more Mycroft.

“God, yes,” John whispered and closed the distance between them.

Mycroft’s mouth was hot and demanding and John surrendered willingly to the searching tongue, revelling in the touch of those graceful fingers holding his face prisoner and pressing himself as close to Mycroft as he could without straining his neck too painfully. John gasped as he felt the hard length of Mycroft’s erection prodding his stomach and his hands scrambled for a hold in the soft wool at Mycroft’s shoulders in a mixture of possessiveness and the very real need to anchor himself. Mycroft made a low noise in his throat and the hands on John’s face tightened as his mouth was plundered with renewed vigour. John was holding on for dear life by the time Mycroft finally pulled his lips away, leaving them both panting for air.

“Upstairs,” Mycroft growled and through the haze of his arousal John felt a stab of satisfaction at his power to reduce this usually so eloquent man to one-word sentences. Reasserting some of his own control over the situation, he grinned and, keeping his gaze firmly on Mycroft’s, let his hands slide down to the small of Mycroft’s back.

“Growing cocky, are we?” John smirked, deliberately drawing them closer together and eliciting another very gratifying grunt from Mycroft. A moment later, however, John could only watch with frank admiration as Mycroft wielded his incredible willpower and transformed into his usual composed self.

“On the contrary,” he replied evenly, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about their current situation. “I have been appropriately endowed in that area all my life.” He paused to raise an eyebrow. “I had presumed that was part of my attraction to you.”

John huffed out a startled laugh. “Mycroft… did you just make a joke?”

Something flickered in Mycroft’s face. “I apologise,” he said a little stiffly.

“No, it’s fine. I’m just… staggered.” John widened his eyes for comic emphasis.

“John-“

And suddenly John understood what he had just seen. “Oh, love,” he said gently, cupping Mycroft’s cheek with his hand. “You know I’m just poking a bit of fun at you, don’t you?”

He stroked his thumb over Mycroft’s cheekbone, the gesture already feeling so very familiar. He could feel Mycroft relax under his touch and then his fingers were gently plucked from Mycroft’s face and pressed, one tip after the other, against warm lips that were still red and a little plump from their earlier kiss. 

“Yes. I do.” 

And John, heart melting under the tender smile, was keenly aware that every caress and each touch of Mycroft’s lips said, _I trust you_.

“Shall we go upstairs,” asked Mycroft eventually and John swallowed against the lump that had risen in his throat. With a smile he turned his hand in Mycroft’s until their fingers were laced together. Rising to his toes he pressed a chaste kiss to Mycroft’s lips. 

“Yes,” he said and by their joined hands led the way.


	23. Chapter 23

Mycroft tightened his grip when John passed by the door leading to the flat and went straight up the stairs to his bedroom. The time for subtle courtship, it seemed, was over, and Mycroft couldn’t find it in himself to object.

Nevertheless, there was a flutter in his stomach when John pulled him inside and, stepping very close, pushed the door shut behind him. An irresistible nudge against his chest, and Mycroft found himself backed against the wall, arrested in equal measures by John’s solid body and the positively ravenous look in his eyes. Warm hands were sliding up into his hair and his mouth was pulled into a searing kiss.

Mycroft had been quite taken aback by his earlier abandon, having practically forced himself onto John, but he couldn’t have restrained himself if his life had depended on it. It had been difficult, very difficult, not to touch John in the car. It was only his desire not to present more of a spectacle to his driver than necessary that had enabled him to resist the temptation. John’s ecstatic expression, however, had almost broken him. The force of his own desire would have astonished Mycroft had he had any mental capacity left to consider the situation objectively. As it was, all his being was focused on John, all thought replaced by fierce possessiveness. And as John had walked towards him, brave and willing, Mycroft had felt strung taut, quivering with want, barely managing to summon the words necessary to draw John even nearer. Almost touching. And then John had given himself over and not even the notorious Holmesian willpower could withstand the onslaught of his burning desire any longer.

Mycroft had devoured John, would have eaten him alive if that could have brought him closer. He wanted John to be a part of him, wanted to be inside John and around John all at the same time. And then John had pulled their bodies together, his own want abundantly clear, and Mycroft could have wept with the overwhelming pleasure and frustration of it all.

The need for air had brought back a sliver of sanity, enough for Mycroft to become aware of their surroundings again. His need was still thrumming powerfully in his blood, demanding to be fulfilled. But not here. What he wanted to do to John was not fit for a communal space like this. _Upstairs_. As soon as the word left his mouth he knew it was an order, not a suggestion, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not while his need was still screaming in his head, his body.

And then John, dear John, had once again surprised Mycroft.

With only a few words he diffused the situation, his down-to-earth humour discharging the atmosphere of its insane intensity and filling the void with warm affection and sensuality, effectively allowing Mycroft to regain his composure. Which he had, with profound relief and gratitude. And it wasn’t for the first time that Mycroft thought that, for all his and Sherlock’s habitual brilliance, it was actually John Watson who was amazing. Steady, sensible John, the staunch rock in whatever madness he was dragged into. With an uncanny instinct, John picked up on the tension around him, soothing it without effort, administering a wry joke or a calming touch, whichever was most needed. And John had proved him right on the spot, sensing the unbidden recurrence of his insecurity after Mycroft’s spontaneous and perhaps ill-advised venture into the realm of light-hearted banter. True to his promise, his very nature even, John had sobered immediately and, reaching out to Mycroft, comforted and reassured him of his continued affection in a manner that was impossible to question. And Mycroft’s doubts had dissolved like slush under the spring sun.

He had never felt more loved. Or wanted.

Until now.

John’s hands and mouth were busily mapping out Mycroft’s face, warm fingers stroking over Mycroft’s cheekbones, his ears, even his eyebrows, while soft lips nipped up Mycroft’s jaw to his earlobe and along the sliver of throat that was not covered by his shirt collar. All the while, John’s erection was pressing persistently into Mycroft’s thigh, and Mycroft felt his last defences crumble. Only a fool would cling to his beliefs when the overwhelming evidence pointed to the contrary. John may have rightly called him an idiot, Mycroft thought, but a fool he was not.

He closed his eyes and finally allowed himself to accept that John’s affection for him went far beyond his natural and professional compassion and, casting his mind over the past weeks and months, Mycroft marvelled at John’s patience, the steadfastness of his heart, his desire. His love. This, Mycroft could see now with startling clarity, was only for him.

The thought sent a rush of excitement from deep inside his stomach all the way to his fingertips, and his own arousal flared up again, being tempered only by the profound gratitude that made his chest feel too tight. Just then, John was pulling back a bit. His eyes were dark and shrewd, but his tone when he spoke was one of fond exasperation.

“You’re thinking too hard.”

Mycroft flushed as he realised that he must have been unresponsive for a quite a while. He tried to duck his head, but didn’t have much room to move with John’s hand’s still on his face.

“I apologise.”

“Don’t,” John said, pressing a light kiss on his lips, but drawing back before Mycroft could respond in kind. “Anything I can help you with?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mycroft, taking John’s hands in his own and pressing a kiss to each palm before letting them go and reaching out to cup John’s face. “I’m afraid…,” he began, gently tracing John’s forehead with the fingertips of his free hand, trailing down his temple and along his jawline, until they rested lightly on John’s parted lips. Warm breath puffed over Mycroft’s skin and he was reminded of the night on John’s sofa, the feeling of John’s hot, moist mouth closing around his finger, the scrape of his teeth, the sucking sensation that had sent thrills straight to Mycroft’s groin. John’s eyes were half-closed now, his lips slack and soft and inviting, and Mycroft shuddered even as the blood rushed down to fill his cock.

“I’m afraid,” he whispered, leaning closer, “that I’m quite hopelessly in love with you.”

John’s eyes flew open, but Mycroft had only a split second to admire the raw emotion shining out before his back was rather forcefully reacquainted with the wall and his lips crushed by a very insistent mouth.

For a while his world narrowed down to the taste of John’s lips and tongue, the press of John’s body against his own, the rough wool of John’s jumper under his fingers, the small noise he made when Mycroft reached lower, tentatively sliding his hands to the small of John’s back, drawing him closer. John rotated his hip, grinding against him and Mycroft gasped at the friction, the delicious pressure against his own cock. This was good, so good, so much better than it had been earlier in the hallway. His arousal had returned with a vengeance and appeared, incredibly, to be still growing, but the insane edge to it was gone.

John’s hands had wandered onto Mycroft’s chest and were now pushing against him insistently. Mycroft was about to object to sudden loss of contact, but the words stuck in his throat when he caught John’s gaze, blue eyes impossibly dark as they looked at him with undisguised hunger.

“You, sir,” John growled, “are wearing far too many clothes.”

Mycroft swallowed as John tugged pointedly on his tie. “I suppose I can rectify that,” he replied, voice conspicuously shaky.

“See that you do.”

John flashed him a feral grin, dexterous fingers already busy on the buttons Mycroft’s waistcoat. Mycroft hastened to loosen his tie, but his hands were shaking and by the time he finally managed to pull the infernal thing from around his neck, John was already busy with his shirt buttons, opening them one by one, placing hot kisses on every new piece of skin he revealed. Mycroft tensed. Before he could suppress it, there came a familiar voice, taunting him from the never quite far enough recesses of his mind,

_Putting on weight again?_

Losing it. He’d lost it, hadn’t he? Rapidly over the past few months. He wasn’t fat anymore. A little flabby perhaps, and filling out again due to John’s prescription of regular meals and sleep. But that was a good thing, surely? Wasn’t that what John wanted?

“Mycroft.”

John waited until he had Mycroft’s full attention, then, keeping their gazes firmly locked, lowered his head until his mouth hovered over an exposed nipple. Mycroft’s breath hitched as he watched it harden with anticipation under John’s hot breath.

Flashing him another look of unmistakable desire, John then lapped slowly, deliberately, deliciously over the hardened nub, and all thought scattered under the bolt of pleasure that ripped through Mycroft at the sensation. Suddenly, he was very glad for the supportive wall at his back. His hands found John’s shoulders, grabbing fistfuls of his jumper as John’s tongue swirled over his sensitive skin. Warm fingers appeared on his other nipple, rubbing and squeezing in concert with the sucking of John’s mouth and Mycroft threw his head back with a helpless groan.

John’s mouth was replaced by a stroking thumb and he stretched against Mycroft, rough wool scratching against his bare chest, a hot tongue licking a track up his exposed throat. Mycroft trembled. Never had he allowed himself to be so vulnerable.

Never had he been more aroused.

“You like that,” John’s voice murmured close to Mycroft’s ear, making his scalp prickle.

“Yes,” he whispered and John gave an appreciative hum that seeped right through Mycroft’s overheated skin, vibrating through his body and thrumming in his groin.

“Good.” John pressed a kiss against the joint of his jaw and Mycroft was surprised by the gentleness of the gesture. “Come on,” said John and skimmed his hands up Mycroft’s chest, pushing his shirt, waistcoat and jacket over his shoulders in one efficient movement. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Mycroft allowed his clothes to slide down his arms and into a heap on the floor while John’s hands stroked over his back and his mouth found Mycroft’s nipple again. As soon as his own hands were free, Mycroft grabbed the hem of John’s jumper and tugged. John obligingly lifted his arms and Mycroft pulled. For a moment it seemed as if the collar wouldn’t fit over John’s head and the muffled laughter emanating from the woolly mass was just about the most charming thing Mycroft had ever heard. His heart clenched even more when John’s head emerged again, tousled and incredibly lovely, and Mycroft felt his possessiveness rush back with a force. A moment later, his lips were latched onto John’s, his hands gripping at the short blond strands. John’s response was enthusiastic, his mouth still smiling, though how he managed to kiss like this and divest himself of his shirt at the same time was quite beyond Mycroft.

Before long, John’s naked chest was pressed against his own, the contact making both men groan into their increasingly sloppy kiss. Once again Mycroft had reason to applaud John’s determination, for while his own hands were still busy exploring the soft, warm skin of John’s back, he could feel John’s knuckles against his stomach as he was making short shrift of Mycroft’s belt and fly. In one swift motion John had hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Mycroft’s underpants and was pushing them, trousers and all, over Mycroft’s erection and down, leaving them to pool around Mycroft’s ankles.

The sudden exposure made Mycroft shiver and he couldn’t help his hips snapping forward, the action grinding his cock against John’s warm abdomen. The friction was utterly delicious and then John’s hands were on his buttocks, pulling him closer and Mycroft’s attention narrowed sharply on the feeling of John’s hands, his body. He was intensely aware that he was smearing moisture all over John’s stomach, rubbing it into John’s skin with each thrust of his hips. Marking John. Making John his own.

John’s face was pressed into Mycroft’s chest, soft moans ghosting over the wet patches where he was leaving open-mouthed, uncoordinated kisses on Mycroft’s collar bones. And Mycroft felt close to drowning in a wave of affection and desire. He could feel that his release was near and part of him fervently wished for it, wished to escape this overwhelming barrage of sensations and feelings.

But there was a part of his brain that was still tuned in on John and he realised that John’s moans had turned into actual words,

“Mycroft. Please. Please, I need…”

John’s hips were bucking against him, each contact drawing a small whimper from John. With a tremendous effort of will, Mycroft pulled back, just enough to allow his hands access to John’s trousers. And even through his arousal he had to smile as John was whispering against his skin,

“Oh yes, yes, Mycroft, please…”

And Mycroft just had to stop for a moment to kiss John deeply and hungrily, before he finally managed to push down John’s trousers. Instantly, his mouth was on John’s again, swallowing his moans, as he went straight to his goal, cupping John’s sack in one hand and stroking up his hard length with the other. John was heavy and hot and velvety to the touch and Mycroft almost choked on his desire. How much longer could he possibly persevere?

And then John’s hand was on Mycroft’s own cock, firm and sure and perfect, and all Mycroft could do was hold on to John, keep their rhythms in sync as best he could, and then John was shuddering, choking out a moan into Mycroft’s mouth, pulsing his release warm and wet over Mycroft’s hand and Mycroft’s control finally snapped. He felt his balls grow tight, white-hot pressure building almost unbearably tightly-

“Mycroft,” John whispered against his mouth,

-and Mycroft’s world exploded in an forceful spurt and then another and another until he was utterly spent and shaking, and somewhere he heard John’s name, though whether it was in his head or on his lips, he didn’t know. And he would’ve fallen to the floor if it wasn’t for strong arms surrounding him, keeping him upright, the solid presence pressed against his front. His own arms snaked around John, holding him tight.

He could feel the chuckle before he heard it. Blinking through the post-coital haze, he looked down into John’s flushed and happy face.

“We didn’t make it very far, did we?” John smiled.

Mycroft looked down at the clothes strewn on the floor, both their trousers still around their ankles. They hadn’t even taken their shoes off, let alone make it to the bed, which stood, still and pristine, not three feet away. “No,” he smiled back tentatively.

“Like two bloody teenagers,” John chuckled again and Mycroft’s smile grew at the sound. Satiation and the fullness of his heart had robbed him of his usual eloquence, but he wanted John to know, needed him to know what he didn’t have the words to say. Perhaps a venture into the rather unfamiliar realm of body language would do the trick? So he hugged John tightly, pouring all his heart into the gesture and trusting that John would read him as well as he usually did. After a moment, John melted into the embrace, his own hands rubbing small circles into Mycroft’s back and Mycroft could feel the smile against his chest.

“I love you too, you know.”

***

Thirty minutes and a very interesting shower experience later, Mycroft was lying on his back in John’s bed. John was stretched out beside him, one arm flung casually over Mycroft’s midsection. From his regular breathing, it was clear that John had already fallen asleep. Mycroft was pleased to observe that recent events, apart from their obvious merits, had apparently had the additional effect of negating his jet lag. Feeling sated and drowsy, he was about to follow Morpheus’ call as well, when a soft chime tugged on his attention. Allowing himself a small sigh, he leaned over, careful not to disturb John, and fetched his phone from the nightstand. There truly was no rest for the wicked. He only hoped it wasn’t the CIA again.

When he opened the message, however, he quickly revised that thought. In comparison, the CIA would have been most welcome indeed.

TWO DOWN, ONE TO GO. TALLY-HO \- SH

Mycroft was still staring at the screen long after the background light had gone out, his stomach slowly turning into a hard knot.

“Whattisit, M’croff?” came John’s drowsy murmur, his arm tightening around him instinctively.

“It’s nothing, love. Go back to sleep,” Mycroft said, pressing a kiss to John’s temple.

“Not going anywhere,” John protested weakly, but he was already being pulled under again.

 _We’ll see_ , Mycroft thought miserably. His hand found John’s and, his mind numb and his heart aching, Mycroft held on to the now familiar warmth, dreading the inevitable moment when it would be taken away from him.

For Mycroft, that night sleep was a long time in coming.


	24. Chapter 24

When John woke up, he found himself lying half-way on his front, his back covered by a very heavy, very warm blanket. A blanket that snuffled rather endearingly into his ear. John smiled. He had half expected Mycroft to be gone in the morning, called away by either urgent business or the need to process what had happened the night before in solitude. The fact that he was still here, and stark naked to boot, told John more about Mycroft’s commitment than his words ever could. John wriggled about carefully until he was lying flat on his back, Mycroft now draped along his side, his face resting in the crook of John’s neck.

Of course it had been good to hear the words, uttered as they were with such solemn sincerity. Very good indeed, John thought, fingers stroking gently through Mycroft’s hair. He smelled like John’s shower gel again, but underneath it there were still traces of his cologne, that Mycroft smell that made John’s cock twitch lazily, even trapped as it currently was under a sharp hip. John let his hand slide over Mycroft’s shoulder and down his side. The ribs weren’t as prominent as John had feared. Apparently Mycroft was taking better care of himself these days. John was glad. And a perhaps a little proud that he might have had a hand in this. 

Mindful not to wake Mycroft, he rubbed slow, gentle circles into his skin, skimming over the velvety expanse of his back and down to his buttocks, leisurely lifting his own hips as a counterpoint and enjoying the warm pressure on his slowly filling cock, before letting go again and stroking along Mycroft’s arm and down to his long fingers. In the grey dawn light his skin looked creamy pale and John wanted to find out what it tasted like, wanted to find every dip and every hollow with his tongue, taking his time, until he was familiar with Mycroft’s body down to the last square inch. And then he would start all over again.

After all, they had all the time in the world. He was even more certain about that now than he had been the other morning, despite the fact that there certainly hadn’t been enough time for exploration the previous night. John couldn’t begrudge this, though. Not when Mycroft had been so delightfully responsive and, yes, downright carnal. How he managed to hide all this passion under his usually placid exterior was a mystery to John, but it raised his already considerable admiration for Mycroft’s self-control a few more notches. Not to mention his attraction to the man. 

John craned his neck to get a better look at Mycroft’s sleeping form. His head was resting on John’s injured shoulder and that image was doing something very strange to John’s heart. In the frantic heat of passion, he had been too distracted to feel self-conscious about his scar and post-coital satisfaction didn’t lend itself to any form of fretting either. John frowned. It wasn’t as if he was particularly shy about his body. He wasn’t. But his shoulder was a different matter. Of all the traumata he had brought home from Afghanistan, it was this one he found it hardest to come to terms with. Because it never went away, it was a constant reminder of what, deep inside, he still considered his failure. In contrast, the trouble with his leg was psychosomatic, and the same went for his hand, which meant that given the right circumstances, the symptoms might vanish or at least abate to some degree. As they had done once before. John blinked slowly. No, it was twice now, wasn’t it? He distinctly remembered how he had needed his cane on the day Mycroft picked him up at the Gallery. What he could not remember was when he had last used it after that. Nor when his hand had last trembled. Certainly not at any time when he had touched Mycroft. 

Mycroft. Who even now was using John’s injured shoulder as his pillow. Who even in his sleep was claiming him, had already claimed him the night before, scars and all. Whose warmth was now seeping into the old wound, soothing it, making it somehow better. Making John better.

Filled with an entirely new sense of wonder, John returned his gaze to Mycroft’s face. His heart jumped when he realised that Mycroft’s eyes were open. In the monochrome light, they were dark pools, looking straight at him, observing him, registering every detail and, it seemed, every thought that flitted through his mind. And all John could do was stare back helplessly, heart laid bare under their keen scrutiny. But John wasn’t afraid, had never been afraid of Mycroft, even though Mycroft’s expression was growing stern, disapproving even, and John had to fight his urge to squirm. And then, in a very deliberate gesture Mycroft turned his head and pressed his lips into his shoulder, squarely on the star-shaped scar tissue, and John felt something come loose in his chest. His breath hitched despite his best efforts and suddenly Mycroft was everywhere, his body curling over and around John, his lips on John’s mouth and at the corners of his eyes. 

Out of nowhere laughter was bubbling up from John’s chest, pure and delighted and with a fuzzy red edge from where Mycroft’s still soft cock had slid against John’s half-hard one, and Mycroft was smiling back at him, warm and affectionate, and in that one moment the world was perfect.


	25. Chapter 25

In the weeks that followed, John discovered that Mycroft Holmes was a very considerate lover, indeed. To John’s pleasant surprise, those keen observational skill turned out to have more practical uses than he would have imagined. No-one had ever paid such close attention to his every reaction, shown such thoroughness in discerning his likes and (when it came to Mycroft admittedly very few) dislikes. And when Mycroft’s newest exploration was complete, he would take John apart, slowly, methodically, forcing John to extend his existing notions of pleasure again and again. And with the incentive being orgasms that turned his marrow to molten fire, John was all for broadening his horizons.

This unrelenting degree of intensity could have easily become too much for comfort, but fortunately Mycroft was also possessed of a very fine sense for moods. John still didn’t know what exactly Mycroft did for a living and he supposed he never would, but if his personal experience was anything to go by, then he hoped that Sherlock’s jibe about the Secret Service had been true. Mycroft truly was born to manipulate. John had a vague feeling that he should be bothered by this, but instead all he felt was a fierce pride. He took this newest revelation in stride. After all, he had long suspected that if he himself was born to any specific purpose at all, then it was surely being the yang to the Holmesian yin.

Nor had he ever had reason to regret this. The rewards highly outweighed the strain on his sanity, as did the discovery that, once he let his guard down, Mycroft’s favourite parry against any sort of atmospheric tension was a dry wit that delighted John beyond measure. He was well aware that this was Mycroft allowing him to see the man within, a privilege which filled John with awe and elation. Not to mention the solace that came from Mycroft’s adept handling of that very English bane called embarrassment. John felt that this was quite a remarkable feat for a man who was the perfect poster-boy for Englishness.

And there was occasion for embarrassment, even for John, who, though certainly no stranger to sexual relationships, experienced an unusual restraint when it came to Mycroft. He still hadn’t forgotten how frail Mycroft had looked on what it retrospect had been their first date. So heart-breakingly delicate and vulnerable. So precious. Of course Mycroft was much stronger than that and hardly needed to be coddled, John knew that! Nevertheless, he couldn’t entirely shake off his protectiveness, much to Mycroft’s amusement. 

John remembered very clearly that night when the touch of hands and mouths wasn’t enough anymore, when the need to be as close as possible finally became overwhelming. John had been straddling Mycroft’s thighs, admiring the kiss-bruised mouth, the quick rise and fall of the pale chest, the traces of moisture smeared on Mycroft’s abdomen and down to where their two hard cocks were lined up together, Mycroft’s still wet with John’s saliva. John’s hands were slick with the lube he was warming between them and he widened his stance, legs quivering with anticipation at the soon-to-be reality of Mycroft stretching him, filling him, taking him. But when he reached for Mycroft’s cock, a firm grip on his wrist stopped him. Confused, John looked up and found dark eyes boring into his own. “No, John.” The grip gentled but didn’t fall away completely. “I want to feel you inside me.”

And John’s heart began to pound very hard, indeed. “You want… but Mycroft-“

Mycroft laid a finger over John’s mouth, effectively cutting off his protests, and there was that look in his eyes again, that look that saw everything.

“Ah.” Mycroft gave John a small smile. “You’re assuming that I am a virgin.”

“Well…”

“I _am_ a man, John.” And even though his tone was reproving, amusement made the dark eyes glitter.

“I've noticed.”

“Yes.” Mycroft fixed him with a level gaze, waiting for John to process his meaning.

“So you have, um…I mean, before…”

“Yes, John,” Mycroft confirmed and John wasn’t sure what he felt at that revelation. Jealousy? Relief? But Mycroft was still speaking, his voice so dangerously low it sent an electric charge down John’s spine. “And if you don’t fuck me very soon,” Mycroft slid his palm against John’s before wrapping his fingers, now lube-slick, around John’s cock in one smooth motion, “I will be seriously inflicted with what I believe is called ‘terminally blue balls’.”

“Dreadful condition,” John managed breathlessly. He felt his brain dissolving as it simultaneously tried to process the sensation of Mycroft’s hand on his straining cock and the fact that Mycroft Holmes had just used the word ‘fuck’.

“Indeed, doctor.” The sultry look Mycroft was giving him would have put Mata Hari to shame, and John was beyond arguing anyway. 

“Let me help you with that,” John managed and when Mycroft let go of his wrist, he dipped his hand lower, stroking a trace down Mycroft’s cock, over his balls, and further down his perineum.

“Much obliged,” Mycroft purred, and spread his legs.

And John set about the task of once more reducing the fabulously eloquent Mycroft Holmes to one-word sentences.

***

For all that the intimacy he shared with John was slowly increasing in scope and depth, Mycroft was still Mycroft, and outside the bedroom he mostly remained his decorous, enigmatic self. Which, as far as John was concerned, was just fine. This was the man he had fallen in love with, after all, and John was the last person who would not appreciate the need for privacy. When you lived with Sherlock Holmes, it became a commodity to be treasured for its rarity. 

But John was still John as well, and he cared for Mycroft’s wellbeing, perhaps more than ever, even though the times of little food and less sleep seemed over now. Between Anthea keeping an eye on him during the day and John taking care of the nights, Mycroft was soon looking both healthier and happier. And yet there were times when he did give John cause for concern. Then he would have an air of melancholy about him, seemingly out of the blue, but when John reached out to him, it only made matters worse. Mycroft wouldn’t say what was bothering him and John knew better than to pry. If he had learned one thing in his whirlwind acquaintance with the Holmes brothers, then it was that the harder you pushed, the more shuttered they became. Besides, Mycroft was by nature and profession a private sort of person and John could relate to that. He battled his own ghosts and wasn’t too keen on dragging them into the light either. Even though he suspected that in this instance, perhaps, they were haunted by the same tall, dark and handsome spectre. 

Any attempt to talk about his brother, however, invariably tightened Mycroft up to a degree that would have made a clam proud and the black mood that ensued would have been truly impressive if John had never known a bored Sherlock Holmes. So, even though John felt uneasy about the way Mycroft dealt with his grief, he decided to count the blessings he was freely given and not worry overly much about the ones that he wasn’t.

In the end, of course, when the cause of the mysterious mood swings was finally revealed, John found that for once ignorance had indeed been bliss.


	26. Chapter 26

It happened one night when John was cuddled with Mycroft on the sitting room couch. It was the first time they had seen each other in days as Mycroft had been off on some top secret business and had returned only late that night, tired and with the hard lines at the sides of his mouth that told John that things had not gone altogether well. Since Mycroft had not dashed to the office but come to Baker Street instead, John figured that the crisis wasn’t of major proportions, more likely just a nuisance. And if John knew Mycroft at all, that meant having to deal with stupid people. There was nothing that could rile Mycroft as much as obstinate denseness. As usual on these occasions, this meant that Mycroft needed John for comfort rather than steaming sex, at least for a while, and John was happy to oblige. For now, he was just glad that Mycroft had returned in one piece, and lying peacefully on the couch, feeling Mycroft slowly relax in his embrace, was a rare pleasure all in itself.

John was just about to suggest retiring to the bedroom, when he heard the front door open and footsteps rushing up the stairs. Familiar footsteps. Before John could process the ridiculous hope that had instantly set his nerves on fire, the door to the flat flew open and in strode, tall and dark and grinning widely, none other than Sherlock Holmes.

John’s mind shut down. The world turned fuzzy around the edges and a moment later he had lost consciousness.

When he came to, there were two faces hovering in his field of vision, both wearing slightly concerned expressions.

“John, are you alright?” Mycroft asked, gingerly touching John’s cheek. Next to him, Sherlock huffed and Mycroft rounded on him, scowling. “This is all your fault. I told you…” Mycroft trailed off, shooting a worried look at John. But John had only been listening with half an ear. His eyes were taking in Sherlock’s face, a little more tanned than he remembered it, the hair slightly longer, but otherwise unchanged. Without thinking John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s upper arm, feeling the familiar fabric of his coat, the wiry strength of the muscle underneath, but still he found it hard to believe that this was real.

“You’re not hallucinating, John.” Sherlock’s voice was surprisingly gentle and if John hadn’t been beyond shock by now, he would have reeled at the genuine concern in those pale eyes. Then a leather-clad hand covered his own and squeezed it reassuringly, and a sob broke from John’s throat, taking with it the hard lump of despair that had sat at the bottom of his heart for the past year. With misty eyes he looked from one brother to the other, the joy that was now flowing freely forcing his grin wider and wider, and he heard himself babbling, but unable to stop.

“You’re alive. You’re alive! Mycroft, he’s-“ And then John’s brain caught up with what his ears had heard Mycroft say and a pit opened in his stomach. His grin slipping from his face, he turned to look at Mycroft, dark suspicion clouding his mind. Oh, how he dreaded to ask, dreaded Mycroft’s answer, but he needed to know, needed Mycroft to tell him that he was misinterpreting things, that his blood-freezing deduction was ludicrous.

“Mycroft, what do you mean you told him? Told him what? Mycroft, did you…know?” John hated how small his voice sounded, how pleading, but not as much as he hated seeing Mycroft’s expression crumble, just a little bit, but enough to tell volumes to John, who knew and loved this face better than his own. Mycroft opened his mouth, but no words came out and for a fleeting moment John caught a glimpse of such despair that it twisted his guts. But then, like shutters coming down, the dark eyes blanked, the expression smoothed out and John felt like he had been physically hit in the stomach. Mycroft was shutting him out.

“Of course he knew,” Sherlock’s voice cut through the tension. “He provided me with the necessary financial means to ensure I could carry out my mission. You see, John,” he continued, waiting for John to look at him, “it was essential that the world believed me dead.” Sherlock fidgeted and that sight alone would have amazed John if he had been capable of feeling anything beyond the hurt and betrayal that pounded in his head. Sherlock looked genuinely contrite as he clasped John’s hand between his gloved ones. “John, I apologise a thousand times if I caused you pain. I honestly didn’t think you’d take it so badly. But secrecy was essential, I assure you. Even Mycroft could see that.”

It was the familiarity of the brotherly jibe that finally proved too much. How could Sherlock go back to business as usual, as if nothing had happened, as if John’s world wasn’t lying in pieces all around him? This was too much to deal with. John didn’t even know which betrayal to focus on first. Was it to be Sherlock, who still didn’t seem to understand how much he meant to John, or Mycroft, who knew it far too well. Far too well indeed. John felt like he’d been caught by an express train and was still hurtling through the air, waiting for the final impact that would shatter his body, his heart, his spirit. Perhaps Mycroft had been right all along. Perhaps John wasn’t very brave at all, perhaps he really was just very, very stupid. A modest man by any standard, John had always felt a wee bit pleased by his unique status with the Holmes brothers. How foolish he had been. How blind. He really had only himself to blame for his surprise, now that they finally crushed him between them, like a grain of sand caught between two tectonic planes, without more thought than they would give any other mere mortal. If it seemed random, it now seemed also entirely inevitable.

Except that John had not expected this, not from either of them. And it hurt and he was angry, so very angry, because he knew that he did not deserve this. John Watson was not only a doctor, but also a soldier and he demanded, if not their love, then at least some bloody respect! And while he knew full well that he’d probably come around and forgive Sherlock eventually, Mycroft was another matter entirely. Because Mycroft had betrayed him on both counts. Mycroft had made him believe that he cared.

The face which John had kissed only minutes before was still serene, but he could see the cracks in mask now, the uncertainty in the eyes, the tightness around the lips. And fuck it all, Mycroft had every reason to feel uncertain! John took a deep breath that did little to steady him.

“Is this true, Mycroft?” His voice, unlike his mind, was dangerously calm. Mycroft nodded, silently and without hesitation. Not a single fucking word, not even now. John was boiling with fury.

“You let me believe for a year-“

“Only eight months,“ Mycroft interrupted him.

“Don’t you dare,” John snarled, “don’t you dare argue mathematics with me, Mycroft!” He shoved himself off the couch and past the two brothers. He needed to get rid of some of the energy that was boiling in his blood or he felt he would explode. Two pairs of keen eyes were watching him warily.

“You deceived me!” John heard the hurt in his voice and it only served to fuel his anger. He focused on Mycroft again. “How could you? You know exactly how much I-“ He broke off, frustrated. This was between him and Mycroft and he was not quite prepared to bare his heart in front of Sherlock like this. The unspoken words burned in his throat and his stomach was churning. Rarely had he felt such a need to punch something. He chose the door. Pain shot up his hand and arm and up into his shoulder, but this was physical pain. Straightforward. Easy. John would always prefer this over the emotional turmoil he was in now. As if on cue, pain bloomed in his shoulder, pulsing with the rhythm of his elevated heart beat. Brilliant.

“John.” Mycroft had risen from the couch and was approaching him warily, concern plain in his body language, if not his face.

“Don’t touch me,” John hissed, cradling his aching hand against his chest, and Mycroft stopped in his tracks. So this was how you got a Holmes to obey an order, John thought bitterly. He watched as Mycroft’s mask slipped away entirely until all that was left was a look of utter misery. And part of John still wanted to reach out, still wanted to gather Mycroft in his arms and make the pain go away, make both their pain go away. Even as he thought it, his treasonous body was already making a step in Mycroft’s direction. But upon impact with the floor, a jolt trembled up his right leg, recalling John to reality. This was one issue that couldn’t be made better with a kiss alone. He halted abruptly, still a few feet away, and Mycroft flinched as if he had received a physical blow. It was the saddest thing John had seen in a very long time. His anger was draining away as abruptly as it had come, leaving behind only weariness and a dull ache that was pervading his entire body. He was suddenly very tired.

“Why did you do it, Mycroft,” he asked quietly, his hand absentmindedly kneading the muscles in his thigh. Mycroft’s eyes followed the movement, but at his question they snapped back to John’s face.

“To protect you.” His voice was just as quiet at John’s, but his body whole body spoke of the tension within.

John nodded slowly and Mycroft relaxed a fraction. He raised his hands in a pleading gesture, but didn’t come any nearer. “John, I’m sorry. I wished so many times that I could just tell you, but this was a secret I couldn’t share with you. For Sherlock’s safety’s sake as much as your own! John,” he took a step forward but halted again. “Don’t you see? My mere presence in your life already put you in danger, but by the time I realised that, it was already too late. I couldn’t… I didn’t want to… John, you know how much you mean to me.” Over Mycroft’s shoulder John could see Sherlock raise an eyebrow at this admission and Mycroft took a moment to collect himself. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a more businesslike tone again. “Moriarty’s people were watching you very closely, John, just waiting for a sign that Sherlock might still be alive. Even the smallest change in your behaviour would have made them suspicious. So I gave up my own investigations into Moriarty and made it as clear as possible that my increased presence in your life was of a strictly personal nature. At the same time, it was essential that Sherlock continued to be believed dead as he hunted down and eliminated the centre of power of Moriarty’s organisation.”

John had gradually stiffened as Mycroft’s little speech progressed. When Mycroft finally trailed off, looking uneasy, John said nothing for a long moment. In his mind he was connecting the dots and sorting his thoughts. Finally, he spoke.

“First things first. Sherlock, your return means that Moriarty is no longer a threat?” Sherlock’s mouth stretched into a feral grin and John nodded, grimly satisfied. “Good.” So much for the silver lining. Now for the darkness. “If I understand you correctly, Mycroft, you two felt that I couldn’t be trusted with a secret that, if it came out, would put Sherlock’s life in danger?”

“No!” The brothers protested in unison. It was strange, John reflected. This was the first time he had ever heard them agree on anything and he simply couldn’t be bothered to care anymore. Sherlock had come forward to stand next to Mycroft and was opening his mouth, but John silenced him with a glance. Then, not wanting to look at either of them, he let his eyes roam across the room until they fell on his cane, leaning against a sleek black umbrella in the stand next to the door. His leg twinged again as he leaned over to fetch the long-forgotten prop. There was some relief when some of his weight was distributed from his leg to his arm. John heard a gasp and looked up to meet Mycroft’s stricken expression. Again he had to harden his heart against the urge to comfort, but this time it was easier. Mycroft’s words were still echoing in his mind.

“You know,” John said conversationally, looking from one brother to the other. “I’ve always known that your arrogance knows no bounds. And given your intelligence you’re probably even entitled to most of it. It’s funny though,” he gave a laugh that was utterly devoid of humour, “I somehow deluded myself into thinking that, being your friend and all, you’d make a few allowances for me. Stupid, I know.”

“John.” The desperation in Mycroft’s voice was so plain that Sherlock’s eyebrows rose once more in surprise.

“No, Mycroft. I’m certain that you meant well, but I’m really, really tired of this,” he gestured vaguely with his free hand and winced at the sting this sent through his already swelling fingers. “I don’t want to be your pet anymore, fun to play with when it suits you, sometimes being thrown a bone when I did not blunder too much, but never really taken seriously.”

“John, please…” Mycroft’s voice cracked and John’s resolve almost crumbled. They were both hurting so much and John could practically feel the security of Mycroft’s arms, could still detect Mycroft’s scent on his own clothes. His heart was aching for Mycroft’s tenderness, his soft kisses, his murmured words. But now Sherlock was speaking, disrupting the spell, “John, I’m truly sorry. I had no idea this would upset you this much.”

And John couldn’t help the flicker of a smile, because Sherlock was looking more distressed than John had ever believed possible. “No, Sherlock, I expect you wouldn’t.” John’s smile died and he looked straight at Mycroft. “But you did.”

Mycroft nodded, helplessly, at a loss for words and John nodded in return. “Yes.” He kept his voice calm even though his chest felt like it was burning up from the inside, “I do believe that you think you love me, Mycroft. But how can you when even Anthea knows me better than you do! She explicitly trusts me with _your_ safety…”

John let that hang in the air for a moment, confident that Mycroft would understand the implications. Then he hardened his resolve for one last effort. “This,” he gestured between the two of them, “is not working. I’m sorry.” Mycroft’s face turned grey and all John felt was utter exhaustion. His whole body was aching and the nervous energy flittering under the weariness made him restless, but he didn’t want to leave without giving Mycroft a chance to have his say. If the high road was still available, he might as well take it.

To John’s secret relief, however, Mycroft didn’t try to argue his case. Instead, he just nodded, his eyes cast downwards. “Listen,” John said to the room in general, rubbing a hand over his face, “I’ll be going out for a while now. I really need some air. And when I come back, I would be much obliged if I found the flat Holmes-free. Thank you.”

And with that he turned and left, wishing he could shut his mind against the image of Mycroft, slumping against his brother, and his ears against the sharp exhale of breath that slipped through the gap just before the door closed behind him. The one that sounded treacherously like a sob.


	27. Chapter 27

Mycroft could only watch bleakly as the light walked out of his life. He shivered as the cold seeped back into his bones, forming a hard knot in his chest. A detached portion of his mind was simultaneously wondering at this new penchant for flowery language and the lack of control he exhibited over his physical responses. Which was somewhat unfair. All through this ordeal Mycroft had held himself together with as much power as he could muster. He had, after all, known that this day would come eventually and when it became clear that John had drawn his, sadly correct, conclusions and acted accordingly, Mycroft had worked very hard to accept the inevitable. Nothing, however, had prepared him for the shaft of ice that pierced his heart, the black despair that descended on his mind. 

Gingerly, he made to touch his chest, feeling for the black hole he half-expected to gape there, but he found that the movement of his arm was restricted. Blinking slowly, he recognised the long fingers that were clutched around his biceps as belonging to his brother. What was Sherlock doing, touching him like that?

“Sit down, Mycroft, before you fall over,” came the gruff order.

Oh. Sherlock was holding him up. That wouldn’t do at all. Pulling his arm free, Mycroft straightened up and promptly forgot what he wanted to do next, as John’s face swam through his mind, surprised hurt and disappointment in every line. John had looked like he’d taken a physical beating and still he carried himself straight, like the good soldier that he was. And nothing he’d said hadn’t been true. Mycroft wished he could have argued, could have convinced John that he loved him, but how do you argue when the other person is correct in every respect? 

_I believe that you think you love me, Mycroft._

But Mycroft did love John! Wasn’t the debilitating pain he was feeling right now proof of that? John had become an essential part of his life, as necessary as air, the missing puzzle piece and Mycroft couldn’t remember a time in his life when he had been happier than during these past months. With John gone, he felt like he was missing a limb, a vital organ. He was thoroughly desolate without John. That wasn’t what you felt for a pet, surely. Oh, how he wanted to follow John then, make him see that in this, at least, he was mistaken. Mycroft did trust him, more than anyone else, except perhaps his idiot brother. 

But not enough. It hadn’t been enough. All he wanted to do was to protect John and in his arrogance had forgotten, again, that John was no ordinary man by any standard. Both he and Sherlock had misjudged him again, had in fact treated him just like he had claimed. Mycroft groaned, despairing at his own stupidity. John had been right, he should have known better. For goodness sake, he’d promised himself never to underestimate John again, had based their developing relationship on this solemn oath. And yet, at the next opportunity he had returned to his habitual behaviour without a second thought. 

Sherlock’s face was moving into his field of vision and Mycroft blinked again, trying to make sense of his brother’s presence. “He’s not a pet,” he said and Sherlock frowned at him. 

“Sit down, Mycroft.” His tone was uncharacteristically civil and Mycroft allowed himself to be led back to the sofa where he sat down stiffly. John’s scent was still in the air and unbidden memories arose of John lying half across him, John kissing his knuckles, stroking Mycroft’s face, his hair.

_Sleep on, love. I’m not going anywhere._

Mycroft buried his face in his hands. 

A few minutes later a nudge against his arm made him look up. Sherlock was offering him a steaming mug and Mycroft, thrown completely off balance by this atypical behaviour, took it. He eyed the contents suspiciously, but if you were prepared to make some allowances, the murky liquid did indeed resemble tea. He shot Sherlock a questioning look over the rim of the cup as he took a cautious sip. To his surprise, the concoction didn’t taste entirely hideous.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s what John does when he’s distressed.” 

Mycroft’s back stiffened, “I’m not distressed.” The response was as automatic as it was inaccurate, of course. But neither of the brothers liked to show weakness in front of the other.

Sherlock shrugged again and walked over to sit down in his chair, where he crossed his legs and regarded Mycroft closely over his steepled fingers. Mycroft’s hands wrapped a little more tightly around the mug, its heat doing little to warm them. Well then, he thought as he met Sherlock’s gaze. With his pride in tatters as it was, the time for prevarication seemed over. For a long moment the brothers just looked at each other, observing, cataloguing, deducing, and Mycroft found that irrespective of everything else that had happened that night, he was glad to see Sherlock alive and well. And though it would never do to tell Sherlock that, Mycroft was also very proud of his brother. To have single-handedly ripped out the weed that was Moriarty’s organisation was a remarkable feat. With a start Mycroft realised that he should be debriefing Sherlock. Under normal circumstances they would already be playing their old game by now where each piece of information resembled a drop of blood drawn from the most recalcitrant of stones. But these weren’t normal circumstances and Mycroft was finding it hard to muster the rhetoric, or indeed enthusiasm, necessary to deal with Sherlock.

Eventually, Sherlock cocked his head. “You surprise me, Mycroft.”

Mycroft made no effort to suppress a snort. “Is that so? I’m sorry if I’m inconveniencing you.”

Sherlock waved that off with a flick of his hand. “Don’t be snarky. It doesn’t suit you.”

“No. That’s more your area, isn’t it?”

But Sherlock wouldn’t be goaded. He had that look of determination about him that Mycroft knew only too well. His gaze fell on the mug between his hands. “I’m really not in the mood for your games now, Sherlock. So just tell me, what do you want?”

“I want you do stop wallowing in self-pity. No, don’t deny it. Even a fool could see it and believe me, it’s not a pretty sight.”

Mycroft bit back another irritated reply and Sherlock nodded, leaning back in his chair. “You know, when you wrote that you cared about John, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. For all your claims that you worry about me, I have never noticed you forming an attachment to anyone else either.”

“That would hardly be any of your business.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “That’s quite the double standard there, don’t you think?” Mycroft just pressed his lips together and after a moment Sherlock continued, sounding wistful, “John really is the most unusual man, wouldn’t you agree? Quite ordinary at first glance and yet he has managed to make himself quite indispensable in both our lives.” 

“Yes,” said Mycroft, reluctant to admit anything to his brother, but equally unable to deny John the credit he deserved. “Quite so.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock agreed, then in one swift motion leaned forward, eyes boring into Mycroft’s. “Then why in the blazes did you let him go?”

“I had not choice!” cried Mycroft and immediately shut his mouth with an audible snap. He could not remember when he had last been provoked into raising his voice. Damn his smug bastard of a brother! But when he looked over at Sherlock, he wasn’t looking smug at all. If anything he looked disappointed. 

“Of all the things I never expected to hear from you, this one has to be at the top of the list. No choice? Mycroft you’ve had nothing but the choice from the day you first managed to manipulate our nanny into lacing your evening milk with honey.”

“This is different,” Mycroft said stiffly and Sherlock’s eyes widened. _Oh_ , he mouthed and let himself fall back into his chair with a huff. “Mycroft Holmes, could it be that you have finally come across someone you cannot manipulate?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said very quietly, “I wouldn’t _want_ to manipulate John even if I could. I know that this must be hard for you to grasp, and I have obviously shown it very poorly, but I respect John deeply. I knew that this confrontation had to happen eventually and I have long been prepared to accept whatever decision John would make. Even if it means that-” he stopped abruptly. There were, after all, limits to what he was willing to share with his brother.

Sherlock was staring at Mycroft as if he was seeing him for the first time, and Mycroft felt that his own tolerance for company had finally reached its limits. Gathering up the shreds of his dignity, he set the mug aside and stood. “I really must be off now. Do come by my office tomorrow, Sherlock. I’d like to hear your account on the Moriarty affair.” 

Not waiting for his brother’s reply, he collected his coat and umbrella and walked out of 221b Baker Street, leaving behind a very pensive Sherlock Holmes.


	28. Chapter 28

If it hadn’t been for the business with the Greek Interpreter, Mycroft would have happily avoided Baker Street for the rest of the decade. Fate, however, had different plans and so it was only two weeks after Sherlock’s return that Mycroft found himself in need of the services of his brother. And since Anthea refused to act as his intermediary (apparently, she was quite displeased by recent events) as adamantly as Sherlock refused to be summoned, Mycroft found himself standing in front of the dark green door once again, staring at the 221b brass embossment and remembering better times. He allowed himself a minute shake of the head. This unseemly moping had to stop sometime, surely. But seeing how he missed John more, rather than less, with each day that passed, it didn’t seem very likely. Squaring his shoulders, Mycroft raised his hand and knocked.

Sherlock was lounging in the sitting room and judging by his sloppy dress and the expression of martyrdom on his face, it was clear that Mycroft would have a good chance to incite his brother’s interest in a shiny new case. Sherlock bore nothing less gracefully than boredom. Mycroft’s eyes flickered to the kitchen of their own volition, a mistake he realised as soon as the drawl came from the sofa.

“He’s not in. As you well knew before you came here.”

“Yes, well.” Mycroft walked over to the armchair Sherlock usually occupied and sat down gingerly. From the opposite chair, the Union Jack cushion glared at him accusingly.

“He hasn’t been well, in case you've wondered.” Sherlock had rearranged his limbs in a more civilized array and was looking at Mycroft curiously. “But then, you look like a zombie yourself. More… weighty, of course.”

“Shut up, Sherlock!” Two dark heads whipped around to stare at John, who was standing in the doorway. Mycroft soaked up the sight like a dry sponge, but his heart sank at what he observed. John looked drained. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin had a sallow tint to it that Mycroft hadn’t seen on him before. He was leaning heavily on his cane, his left hand hidden from view, shoved as it was into his jacket pocket. Above all though, John was looking furious. It spoke volumes about the turmoil in Mycroft’s mind that it took him a moment to realise that John’s anger was directed not at him, but at Sherlock!

Confirming his analysis, John fixed Sherlock with a glare. From his baffled expression, his brother was as oblivious of what he had done to invoke John’s wrath as Mycroft was.

“You do not get to talk to him like that anymore,” John growled. Sherlock’s eyebrows rose impossibly high even as a tiny spark ignited in Mycroft’s chest. Hope?

“You do not,” John repeated, stepping closer, “get to throw jibes about his weight anymore, Sherlock, do you understand me? Oh, don’t give me that look. Your brother almost starved himself in his worry about you. He doesn't deserve… just… don’t Sherlock, alright?” John’s momentum faltered and he just looked at Sherlock, muscles jumping in his clenched jaw. His whole posture spoke of defiance, even as his hand clutched the cane tightly, the image reminding Mycroft so much of their first meeting at the warehouse, it made him quite dizzy.

He hadn’t noticed this before, but John’s penchant for doing the unexpected must have rubbed off on Sherlock somewhat. To Mycroft’s astonishment his brother didn’t argue, didn’t mock or huff, but only gave John a long, considering look before echoing him, “Alright.” As simply as that. It was possibly the meekest reply Mycroft had ever heard Sherlock make and it was quite touching, even though Mycroft knew that his brother’s consideration was not for him, but entirely for John.

John’s response was just as simple. He nodded, and with that, evidently, the matter was closed. His anger visibly drained away and now he began to look uncomfortable. Shuffling over to the kitchen counter, he mumbled something about forgetting his wallet and then made his escape as quickly as he could.

In the ensuing silence the brothers looked at each other and Sherlock gave a low whistle.

Mycroft felt the flush rise in his face and resolutely turned the conversation to the safer grounds of the case at hand. In his heart, however, the tiny spark had kindled an auspicious flame.


	29. Chapter 29

To say that John was hurt by Mycroft’s duplicity was to say that there was a spot of trouble in Afghanistan. Oh, he had been angry at Sherlock as well, but somehow forgiving his erratic flatmate proved a lot easier. There hadn’t even been much need for talk. When John had returned from his long walk with a clear head and a weary heart he had found Sherlock trying to cover up a scorch mark on the kitchen table. It was still smoking faintly. So John had shouted and Sherlock had grinned and just like that they had fallen back into their old lives. By the next morning, the flat was as cluttered as it had been before and if during the following weeks John sometimes needed a reminder that this was not just a dream, but that Sherlock was really back, all he had to do was run his fingers over the blackened mark on the kitchen table. And so this wound on his heart healed quickly and neatly.

The same was not true for the gaping hole that had once held Mycroft. Thankfully, Sherlock refrained from enquiring into the exact relationship between his brother and John. Whether this was due to his usual disinterest in such affairs or the fact that he’d deduced all there was to know from when he had found them on the couch together, John neither knew nor cared. He was just grateful that he wasn’t forced to talk about it. It was bad enough that his heart felt like a ball of lead in his chest all the time now. Far worse, however, was how much he missed Mycroft and there was nothing he could do about it. He saw a man with an umbrella rush by his taxi window and John’s heavy heart lurched, leaving him even more devastated when it turned out to be just some City bloke, a black sedan car passed him in the streets and the same thing happened. He took to long walks even though his leg was hurting so badly now that he had to rely heavily on his cane. He chose the parks because there were fewer CCTV cameras there and he avoided the area around the Hickman Gallery altogether. Sherlock took him on a few cases, but he always went home after he had given his medical opinion. There was no way he could chase after anyone in his condition. It made him worry about Sherlock’s safety, but he knew that Lestrade had more than one eye on his consulting detective these days. The DI had made his relief to have Sherlock back hale and hearty surprisingly clear. 

John knew this couldn’t go on forever. After all, this wasn’t the first break-up of his life! But no amount of reason or ranting seemed to help and slowly John began to worry that he was losing his mind. And then, one afternoon when the self-checkout machine was blaring at him and he realised that he had, once again, forgotten his wallet at home, he had stumbled upon Mycroft, perched right there in his sitting room, looking worse even than when Sherlock had gone missing. John had opened the door just in time to hear Sherlock’s jibe and had instantly flown into full-blown anger. And in that single moment, a couple of things fell into place in John’s mind. Number one, Mycroft had indeed been worried sick about Sherlock, at least in the beginning, that much had not been a lie. Number two, Mycroft was the bloody British Government, secrecy was his default reaction. Also, from what Sherlock had told him, there arguably had been a good reason for keeping Sherlock’s being alive secret even from John. Number three, Mycroft did look like a zombie and with Sherlock as safe and sound as he ever would be, there really could be only one explanation for it. Number four, no matter what had happened, John’s protectiveness of Mycroft ran just as strong as it had since their fateful Italian lunch date. And then John’s rant faltered as his final realisation pushed aside everything that came before, because who was he kidding? This wasn’t just protectiveness.

To his relief, Sherlock apparently wasn’t in the mood to argue and John made his way out of the flat as quickly as he could, head swimming with what just had happened. 

“Blasted Mycroft,” he muttered under his breath, but the heavy lump in his heart was already beginning to melt.

***

It was Friday night a week later. Sherlock had just dashed off to another crime scene. John had offered to come along, but Sherlock had declined. He had been a bit hurt, but the twinge in his leg reminded John just how little help he was these days. He rattled off a string of curses at his leg and the world in general, but eventually settled on the couch with a sigh. Might as well see what was on the telly. 

He wasn’t finished switching through the channels when there came voices from downstairs. A Friday night visitor for Mrs Hudson? It was rare, but not unheard of. _Good on you, Mrs Hudson!_ , John thought, but tensed as he heard footsteps on the stairs. He wasn’t in the mood for visitors tonight. His plan of quickly hiding behind the couch was shot down however, when there came a tentative knock and the door opened to reveal a very tasteful floral arrangement. John blinked. But when Mycroft’s nervous smile appeared behind the flowers, he switched off the telly and rose clumsily from his seat.

“Good evening, John. May I come in?”

“Uhm, sure.” John gestured with his hand and Mycroft came into the room, shutting the door behind him. An embarrassed silence fell as the two men stood, a few feet apart, staring at each other. John’s doctor’s eyes noticed the gauntness of Mycroft’s features, the dark rings under his eyes, the pallor of his face, but his heart remembered the soft texture of his hair, the warm smell of his skin, the cool touch of his fingers, his taste. John felt the flush rise in his face and quickly directed his eyes from Mycroft’s mouth to the flowers in his hands. An involuntary smile tugged at his lips.

“Are those for me?”

“What?” Mycroft startled, obviously shaken out of his own thoughts. “Oh, yes. Uhm. Quite.” Apparently run out of words, he took a step towards John, holding out the bouquet. It was the most awkward gesture that John had ever seen Mycroft make and it was utterly charming. “I understand that flowers are an essential part in a reconciliation between, ah, inamoratos.”

John blinked again. “Inamo- you mean lovers?” 

Mycroft’s face turned pink, but he looked straight at John as he nodded. “Yes, I mean… that is, I hope…”

And John realised that Mycroft was still holding out the flowers and was now starting to look a little desperate. With his own heart beating wildly in his chest, there really was no reason to make the poor man suffer any longer. He took the bouquet from Mycroft’s hand and set it carefully on the couch table.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice low, and took Mycroft’s free hand between his own. It was predictably cold, so he started rubbing it gently. Mycroft’s eyelids fluttered shut, but he quickly opened his eyes again, looking uncertainly at John. 

“John… I am so, so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I’d rather starve myself than cause you pain.”

“I know,” John said, turning Mycroft’s hand so that he could press a kiss into his palm. “But you must know that starving yourself hurts me, too.”

Mycroft flinched guiltily, clearly aware that he’d once promised John to take care of himself and eat well. He had obviously neglected to do either over last couple of weeks. But John wasn’t after Mycroft’s apologies. What John wanted was for him to understand, to believe. “Because, Mycroft,” he continued, and here he took Mycroft’s other hand to kiss that palm as well, “I care about you a great deal.”

“John,” Mycroft began, shifting on the spot as if he wasn’t sure how far he was allowed to go. 

“And when I say care,” John said, placing Mycroft’s hands on his chest so he could feel John’s racing heart. Then he looked straight up into Mycroft’s wide eyes, “I do mean love.”

Mycroft made a low noise, deep in his throat, and then his hands slid around John’s torso. An instance later John found himself crushed against Mycroft’s chest, the slim arms keeping him in a unbreakable grip and soft kisses raining down on the top of his head. His own arms were wrapped around Mycroft’s neck and he was holding on for dear life as he deeply inhaled the smells he had missed so much, and which both soothed and excited him, until he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. And all the while Mycroft was muttering his name like a prayer and a promise and eventually John managed to push away a little, just enough to take Mycroft’s face between his hands and the look in Mycroft’s eyes nearly broke his heart.

“It’s alright, love,” he said, thumbs stroking over Mycroft’s wet cheeks and trying to smile through his own tears. “It’s alright. I’m not going anywhere.”

And Mycroft, sophisticated and urbane Mycroft, gave John the most vulnerable look he had ever had directed at himself. “Promise?”

“I promise,” John replied, swallowing thickly. 

Mycroft’s expression brightened, but John could still see the brittleness underneath. “You know I have means to find you should you renege on your word. Even though I hold only a minor position in the-“

“Oh, hush,” John interrupted him affectionately, drawing him close and holding on tight as he finally closed his lips over Mycroft’s. He would never let this man go again. And if Mycroft still needed John to convince him of his love and devotion from time to time, well, that was quite alright. Because John needed Mycroft, too. 

***

When Sherlock returned to the flat later that night, he was quite pleased to see John’s cane lying forgotten next to the sofa. He did shake his head at the drying bouquet of flowers sitting on the table, though. He’d never understand his brother. Or John, for that matter. 

He flung himself into his chair and whipped out his mobile. There was one new message.

DID IT WORK? \- A

Sherlock huffed and typed his reply. 

OF COURSE IT WORKED. NOW STOP TEXTING ME.\- SH

Sherlock pressed the send button and leaned back. He smiled as his gaze fell on the abandoned cane again. Perhaps Anthea wasn’t as stupid as she looked.

A moment later that thought had already dispersed, as Sherlock steepled his fingers and began plotting where in London to send John first. The game, after all, was on.


End file.
